I
“At odds again,”
hands moving out
of the shadows.
And now, now
everything seems
definite, discrete,
fingers webbed
with sunlight
the tree lets through,
arms still in their
own time, circling,
catch up, catch
hold at the wrists,
like cell chains
in a watchcrystal
completing themselves.
together again.
Shoulders, torso,
each one of us one,
once more. It is
hard to imagine
minutes just past.
II
“At odds again,”
hands moving against
the wind like loose
flapping things,
washcloths, words
long frayed with
careless use. You
wanted to say
it was beginning
to bother you,
beginning to wish,
wondering if thought
in broken light
could ever touch
itself, reassemble
itself. The King,
our promise, broken,
the sword we imagined
gone, hovers like
leafmold in the light.
Say it, then, the stain
of things remains.
III
“At odds again,”
elbow cupped into
wet leaves. After
love, there are
moments of clutter,
and no amount of
practice will teach
you to regard them
as anything more
than what you lean
against catching
its buried chill.
Keep your fancy
to yourself; facts
do not fade but are
momentarily obscured,
the work of hands,
touch and its out-
come, the absence
of touch, and distance,
the inevitable space
between, shapes all
our limitations.
IV
“At odds again,”
knee raised slightly,
sunlight and shade,
patchwork coverlet.
Bits and pieces,
the story of each
thing connected, end
to end, this instant
extended in every
direction. Not a
thing in space or
things in spaces or
spaces between what
space seems occupied
for this moment, the next.
We are not snowstorms
of ourselves, spindrift
and curl. The whorl
of action is a template
in time: the casual
shifting of leaves,
hands moving, the certain
flex of possibility.
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