We fell in love. How to describe this?
At dawn, the stones breathe very softly.
They are less sure of their edges, have made an infinitesimal movement
towards the state of young deer.
The stillness, a kind of accomplishment,
like the surface of a lake on a parked autumn day
(not even a leaf falling).
At the same time, a faint, continual tremor in everything,
ordinary: as if all things were kettles, simmering —
or a heavy train arrives on our platform —
and extraordinary: as one, in purring clouds,
all the birds take wing
fleeing an earthquake region.
A sentence in all the tenses at once —
extravagantly confusing, but at the same time, a salutary rush.
Poise. The temperature just before
ice melts.
Arrest. So quiet, afterwards,
like the seas on the moon.

As for glances: always a to for a fro.
Tiny details startle us,
because we are new, and don’t have the marks,
can’t work out the scale or the radius.
A hare of surprise leaping and dashing
in the roll of a raindrop across a leaf.
A desire for motionlessness,
for a time to absorb: also,
a desire to race.
Yellow-shelled snails setting out on their day of evolution.
The grinding engines of stars in busy tube trains,
the Z heading right back to the A,
wanting it all to start straight over again.
We mustn’t move too quickly or too suddenly:
everything, hanging from threads of grace,
stirs as we stir —
air, a snatch of Venus from a passing car,
both the near and the far are at one, fragilely
connected, and we
are one style of that connection.
Even the simple things are somehow terribly difficult to believe:
that we are are here, that it all holds together:
the table, the pepper pot… Iron… Salt cellar…
Yet, the most outlandish stuff seems really quite plausible…

Sometimes, inside us, the birds with their stretched wings
ache to be lizards, to give back their feathers at the entrance,
to cool their blood and gorge on rocks,
to be closer to rocks themselves, lumps of sinuous batteries,
charging in the sun.
Aware of this, we wake and shake ourselves once more
with lines from Neruda or songs,
slap our faces, leap into freezing pools,
get real: politics, boroughs, laws, justice, cities —
the quick stuff. We must not be
irresponsible. And yet…
We have caused all this fuss in nature,
this unrest.
The darkness of a mirror’s back.
A life, ominous and grandiose,
trickling in the woodlouse, ticking in elms.
A chivvying, a Chinese-whispering, a question.
A purpose? The hint of the shape of a direction?
A maple leaf, landing in a pond,
disturbing autumn, liquid in its ripples of zeroes.
Delicately, the doorways to all things, we open;
doorways, we know now, we can never close.
In the wind, the hinges
squeak and it can seem like
no one is home…

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