WEBVTT

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In the forming, so separate it
seems, at moments it can exist.

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Which maybe is only that reading
impulse to return to the poem.

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Not to be removed, not to
be removed from the others

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and on its own.

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But that way of
not being done that

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sends you back around
by way of the beginning.

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And all this being
allowed and together,

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provoking a kind of batted
around echo in the world,

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and it is locating,
temporary and eventual.

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Pulsing, walkish gray
on elevated train.

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Up here, all day grow weeds, as
I'm sure you've seen, and bees.

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Crows landing in trees, and
rust of rusted scaffolding,

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by train.

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I went to sleep and woke again.

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I'd shift within a
single page, lines

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and spaces, words
and lines, everything

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staying or leaving
that single page.

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Those single pages
being the solid space.

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Each up next to each other.

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Guides and neighbors.

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A moving back and forth was
happening, a bouncing of tones,

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changing or not changing.

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Each poem would almost
responsively solidify

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between its
neighbors, and moved,

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it might do it some more.

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Until that solidifying
became real.

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A responding.

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And that solidifying was for me,
so that then I was, in a way,

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done with it.

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Or done with it for
then, and I could just

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blow through it with my voice.

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The other kind of making,
that is changing, put away.

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Grain that's skinny on its
stalk, and thought too,

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conversing vertically,
like fumes.

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The way you say of a
hidden bird its song, then

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stick your hand
out palm and crumb.

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See cloud folds up under
curtain, then big light

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in on my body, tapping.

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