genius of planets & stars, rotations & spinning,
meteorological time maybe, geologic maybe. &
what we call ordinary, call human, has little to do
with the fact that morning arrives after night. If
there is anything to be found these months, let
the clouds say so, point the way. Today someone
said museum, said gallery, said offstage in the wings,
said in the stacks of the local library, said a bridge
away, up the road, said pockets of, corners, on
a street, in a neighborhood, at an intersection, said
ancient—those trees, said aerial photographer of
fires, & evacuation, rising water, said emptied out,
& crowded, & somewhere. Though I could hear
lawn mowers & plumbing & others in other rooms,
each phrase made itself an elsewhere. I have to keep
myself from saying everything at once, from crying,
from ending the call before they’ve gone though
time’s run out & now we’re late on another day
that isn’t one except that didn’t we wake, try
again, say & say? Didn’t we?