The Beauty of Where We Have Been Living
This takes hold of soil and here. In the same way sun
flowers the sea, in the same way seeds
lie in the light. A buoy bell rocks
above a farm’s long furrows. Granite is over
and under the living. Through a loom
leaned on a sunlit wall, warp-ends weighted
down with clay, a Monarch works
as floating through, as saying to, as otherwise.
Could I pass all words through the end of seeing,
new would rise to speak of working.
New moon, full stop, black-apple phase.
Will grow a crescent presence over days, will give
(by light) your name to snow
Thousands of rulers up
and the wings are a copied motility
and a cabin is for breathing above the earth
and for walking in on elsewhere.
Why not a horse
now that the fields are visible?
The sun is always
circling the story. Like how
you showed me
how the hummingbirds feed:
saying This is a moat