Sunday, November 15, 2020


We live with death, and die not in a moment.

This quiet—what is it?
It borders on stillness,
But the air stirs the trees,
Rustling the last few leaves.
The world still hangs itself,
And swings in the balance,

And this isn’t silent.
Rooms can be quieter,
But they rarely partake
Of this feeling, except
When sunlight sleeps in them
Like a careless lion.

Ducks dive in cold water.
We’re at eight thousand feet.
This quiet—what is it?
Someone tried to die here,
But there’s something else, too,
Not to do with people.

There’s a hedge you can sense,
A charcoal line stretched out
So thin it’s a shadow,
When you get to the edge
Of all your human things—
Not past them; to the edge.

It’s in the other woods
That are and aren’t those woods
You see across the lake.
It’s the world our bodies
Were and are and came from
That our words can’t enter,

Can’t explain, can’t describe.
Let’s sit here together
For a second and watch
That neighboring country
That will welcome us home,
The part that isn’t us.

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