Poetry Archives

Strange gods occupied no space in that chaotic inflation of dark 
and light,

or in the exponential expansion of a singular disturbance projecting
dark-matter wind

and the seas, cooled to within a fraction of waiting

(let the dry land appear…)
(let it divide the waters from the waters)

Here, a sudden June rain disturbs the weakly interacting leaves
of the hickory, of the birch.

And above me they begin their damp and leathery imprinting again,
on the sky—

on the tarnished outridings inscribed in a mass of starlings
giving wing—

No feeling of gravity: just these starlings veering in swift updrafts
within this hueless radius

(other winds may ease their kind)

Now giving degree and weight to future vacancies, and holding discourse
with nothing but air,

they are such light signatures of sources they do not assume.
I close my eyes, to hear the wind’s agitation:

the many implements and the many segments and particulates
these birds stir—

the limbs, boughs, other words here without lack or abundance
(…and watered the whole…of the ground)

in an indeterminate curvature, nearly impossible to follow—