When did I begin?
I forgot to look at the camera.
10 minutes, great.
OK.
This next poem is called "An Enso for Larry Levis".
An enso is simply a telegraphic representation--
you've seen them, what is it, Lucent has an enso.
You know those-- it's a circle that a monk,
who has realized some deep--
that has had some deep realization,
will often do one of these as an expression of that,
and write a poem to accompany it.
And so this poem is "An Enso for Larry Levis".
The moon died.
An odor of urine and bruised parsley
that attaches to the rims of old jam jars.
Everything then becomes a setback.
Compliments often tucked together.
The whiteboard on which we used to write dispatches
is about to recall a fallen center.
Our lives before this moment required a bit of acting,
the future selves standing alongside the necessary past
like approving parents.
But behind them both, the night sky or a blue tacky dawn
emerges, embraces the perfect mallet of scent,
similar to the tincture you prepared for weeds, weeds that
grow the length of all relations,
mimicking a doorway where you watch the coming night.
Equal inside and outside, you are
unable to step through what's not next.
The white bib of a certain speckled bird
that lives only in your trees.
We're speaking of an event that's an instruction.
If named, a faint corruption of anticipation
called baby finds the tit.
And who doesn't wish.