The truss cuts early Autumn’s blue plane
into uneven strips. Loss-
merging
color, darkness into this
widening line, this blurred
frame. It holds, but the holding heavy
the frame not straight. We can never
touch the trusses. (They are a strong math)
though I do not doubt.
The leaves are (still) green. Fish still slip
—especially in the fishhouse
the profiled eye (still) stares
on the bed of crushed ice.
Is this a need (for interruption)?
(And) the fame is not
straight (and) the car moves on (and)
the mind goes back (and) the hand
still waves
Learning to find the moment, she said, is something solid
we can build ourselves on. The moment
(I know) is not, it is
the division of water, seeing this once
or: I will forget my eyes and see the thing doubled. I need
to understand
(the mind is divided, but) the passing
we never see.
What is (need)
watching?
Consider that the car moves at an average speed.
The river is The Rappahanock
and cantilevers hold us (here).
The town behind us empties out. Small houses (I do not know—
what is their name?) fall from the center, teeter
in a nervous line. Trailers grid the top of the bank.
The whitewash of the fishing boat (below) reflects
noon’s straight glare. But (I want)
to touch the wood? Each existence
extends. It is precarious
or: It grows—it moves
forward (from edge to bank
with fish) with the straight
truss and time. Speak or hear—
there are two halves of the brain,
this part is not involved with speech.
Language passes
unites of words/mystery/faulting/the history of calling/folding
What is it we cannot see?
And how then shall we begin?
The moment necessary for crossing—
it is not easy
to find. I know nothing about physics,
mystery is finding each moment, struggling—
each axis—every point.
The man, below, reels in the fish, holds
its fat body in his bare hands, stopping
the struggle, stilling it, lifting it
off the hook—there is a hole
(now) below the fish’s lip
but the fish still slips. We keep supposing
moving depends on this. The shadows
of the trusses (now) cut the sun into strips
And consciousness—named (mind)
(named) space?
White caps, because wind. Shadows
faster and less and less sun. Or:
the bridge—translation.
Which pieces would you choose to carry over?
I was standing in the middle
of the hill (the voice (still)
stands). The eyes looked
with persuasion. I turned
(missed ascent) did not achieve—
the eyes too full (the voice)
too heavy.
The view best from the top? I will never—
(see)/fingers/figures/penciled/paper
with grids. The grids for keeping
the lead in straight lines. The arrows (also)
arcs of precision, and rows upon rows and pages.
I wanted to stack the pale green grids, to hold them
in my hand, because the grid could hold the numbers—
could mean the safety of line. Memory—
I will cross
the bridge. The words-
move around the room.
Live crabs
in summer. Raw oysters
in Autumn—their gray mass (in)
a punch bowl (and)
the small cup holds almost
twelve two-tined forks.
Brazil nuts fall, triangular (from)
the shell. The shell
is empty. (it is)
hollowed out. We can
know (touch)
the inside. It is rough. (It is)
sculpted.
Will you
not come again?
I will go—
there soon.
Will you
not come again?
I will cross—
the river twice
(The fishing boats are gone
the water is strange and gray.
She sits inside and stares
at rough pages of a book.
She moves her fingers
down the margins
thinks of empty space
names the space)
the space—named bridge.