Is and Is Not
I cannot look for long at an object before it becomes the world.
Even if probability is already in motion,
where the road lets out by pine and invasive wildflowers.
The New England trees
are in flotation with my soul. I am inside out.
why must I let you go?
There shall be nothing personal here
yet the personal is so brilliantly illuminating
a memoir (a measure) ghosted in fluorescence
in the yellowish resolution of yellow, the intensely ocherous heretofore
Nor would it be worthwhile to address the world
vis-à-vis the viscera, to follow through
with it, like listening for the siren
after the wreck at night
in the rain, whence springs a makeshift cross
by the edge of the road,
a doily glued beneath a picture frame, a God’s Eye taped with plastic flowers
and lit by pillared candles
in the name of the Holy Mother;
but that is nothing
with all the grieving mothers who have fallen
in the nation machines,
a slue of currencies, Viagra, wet dreams, the terror channel,
the thick configuration of outer life
where the timber and ditch lilies collide (submit loved one here)
while death chases its hat
through fitful wind.
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