I cannot look for long at an object before it becomes the world.

Even if probability is already in motion,
for example

where the road lets out by pine and invasive wildflowers.

The New England trees
are in flotation with my soul. I am inside out.

Dear soul
why must I let you go?

There shall be nothing personal here
yet the personal is so brilliantly illuminating

the backdrop:
a memoir (a measure) ghosted in fluorescence

in the yellowish resolution of yellow, the intensely ocherous heretofore
thinly imagined.

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.