The arch in the bridge. The moment of architecture.
The island where you lost your mother's keys. The photo she sent
of someone who looks like her walking the point
where the land becomes weak. The dissolving of flesh.
The frightening blanks where the stores were.
The sense the owners died. How many people killed by logs,
do you think, over the years? The carrying of one another
when young, light, and poisoned. The doorsteps
we woke up on. The fox scat. The extra points in school. Who knew
how prominently quarries featured. Only once or twice in a lifetime
does one find the suicide or hear the primordial screaming. The towns nearby
that survive on museums of their earlier burning. The dreams set
in neighbor's houses. The mounds with hooves and bones sticking out.
The gentle sloping. We will always be swimmers
digging into the thaw. The former newness.
The various cuts of meat. The places cats won't go.
The climbing out onto the banks. The naked man
working harmlessly in the woods. Like a milkweed or fox
you are something that parted the dirt here. The rotting that sets in
when you leave. The trees stamped onto our minds
like traumas are supposed to be. The moon sitting greedily
on your house. The seasons tugging at your sleeve. The roads
that have to do with your body. The last names
that have a flavor in your mouth, that you will eat
if you're ever starving. The grass you've been staring at.
The fullness you assume will reach your eyes
if you give it another year.