In the forming, so separate it seems, at moments it can exist.
Which maybe is only that reading impulse to return to the poem.
Not to be removed, not to be removed from the others
and on its own.
But that way of not being done that
sends you back around by way of the beginning.
And all this being allowed and together,
provoking a kind of batted around echo in the world,
and it is locating, temporary and eventual.
Pulsing, walkish gray on elevated train.
Up here, all day grow weeds, as I'm sure you've seen, and bees.
Crows landing in trees, and rust of rusted scaffolding,
by train.
I went to sleep and woke again.
I'd shift within a single page, lines
and spaces, words and lines, everything
staying or leaving that single page.
Those single pages being the solid space.
Each up next to each other.
Guides and neighbors.
A moving back and forth was happening, a bouncing of tones,
changing or not changing.
Each poem would almost responsively solidify
between its neighbors, and moved,
it might do it some more.
Until that solidifying became real.
A responding.
And that solidifying was for me, so that then I was, in a way,
done with it.
Or done with it for then, and I could just
blow through it with my voice.
The other kind of making, that is changing, put away.
Grain that's skinny on its stalk, and thought too,
conversing vertically, like fumes.
The way you say of a hidden bird its song, then
stick your hand out palm and crumb.
See cloud folds up under curtain, then big light
in on my body, tapping.