World that trembles on the edge of
futures that might never be: beneath
the epithets we give, whose essence
is gone before we name the cataract
that whips water to foam as it falls
on rock? World pressed into litanies---
intangibles of nacre and hum, blur of midges'
eyelash wings; spiders' threads lighter than
syllables that vaporized almost as soon as
we tried to sew them to our wrists. Finally,
can we believe that everything we'd ever
need was right here in our midst; that vines
traveling across the flanks of buildings once
held small white trumpets announcing months,
years, the passage of time when we thought
it was still something we could count.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.