not a concept, much less a faith—
not quiet
but coming forward from the dust, a white mare
partially bone, primarily fast in the higher field
and was the sound of snow dissolving, glass being blown
from lips of beginners
where by love I mean a failing,
copious and opaque, heart without a practical power
most feeling the gives of undone
fountain and basin, the water
penned in, the tension to ring where the water
turns down, where the beads are cracking
our sun's white codex
in the courtyard foreign beyond the window
plurally into something else
when I live on the look of muteness, where I lived on the look
of happiness
rose that was quanta—
I ask after cost—after gouge of grass
and sky, after cause
that hides its cause
in unsustainable shapes of pain
in tempos habituating grass
redbud trees in arriving and splitting
accost, accost, come closer to my ribs
not only the understanding
has a language
be it wind in rings of meanest direction
or deepest remove when bluest in surface
by memory I mean
a skin: a cover for the underworlds
that we might try to breathe
or hear in wind a single
soothing thing
or hear of wind a kindred displacement
in our skins to the added
subtractions we live in, sun over sand, the coppered hem—
wetness, sun in tons of bells, in apples cut open
for eating
yes now I am listening to your fallible sounds
pity for the you
that is stranded, pity for the you
who dazed or faceless
where now I am hearing a mechanical click
to see I had no beautiful shelter
the motioning colors of the trees, the edgewise
pit before beginning
to take up
listening as something harder, to take up
walking as something longer
attach me, walking, attach me
