To greet the self, turn of angle in the mirror, eye, the other, the empty half of this
bed returning to reach over the angle of body missed something
like reruns or flash forwards, the flood of words itself a poem’s unknitting rumble
to the o the turned on itself slow adieu meaning hollow
if we could know scatter and distanced pace of will, provincial weeks long as months this
day’s marathon in the thump of seeding, voice or voiced
receding days, hours flat angled, unfull, this effort to say “last” to pass on “how will you
remember me?” will I echo echo caught in the woodgrain bedpost cushion
I do not know yet how to be home, to home in on each task with yawning gapes across some
tundra of our living at the end of turning again will I greet will I see
something like you now in that reflection, in this light lifting morning the voice in the throat
of the russet robin, constant distanced tremolo choking still, stiller as I wait
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