In Such Country

The test may be how good you are
in wind when wind blows through you—

saying I do to I do the white-crowned
sparrow saws the last stand of light

as animal paths on the opposite mountain
ghost into generational tracings.

Out of the breeze’s sway a fly knocks
against a screen in its own summation

of attempt.



Can one touch it?
It is too big for touch.
In its opening, it closes.

A construct anchored
in fracture, one that
can be entered—

one that activates space
and saddles the observer
with names made nameless.

There is no getting
away from this—
limb by limb

it mutilates all
we do. Saying “I do”
to “I do”

begins the work of
understanding, but with hands
extended, where to take

hold, where to let go?