The arch in the bridge. The moment of architecture.
The island where you lost your mother's keys. The photo she sent
of someone who looks like her walking to the point
where the land becomes reminiscent of dissolving of flesh.
The trees stamped onto our minds like traumas
are supposed to be. The frightening blanks where the stores were.
The sense the owners died. How many people killed by logs,
do you think, over the years? The moon sitting greedily
on your house. The carrying of one another
when young, light, and poisoned. The doorsteps
we were left on. The fox scat. The extra points in school. Who knew
how prominently quarries featured? Only once or twice in a lifetime
does one find the suicide or hear the primordial screaming. The towns nearby
that survive on museums of their earlier burning. The dreams set
in neighbor's houses. The mounds with hooves and bones sticking out.
The gentle sloping. We will always be swimmers
digging into the thaw. The former newness. The various cuts of meat.
The places cats won't go. The climbing out onto the banks. The naked man
working harmlessly in the woods. Like a milkweed or fox
you are something that parted the dirt here. The rotting
that sets in when you leave.
September 2, 2010
The Arsenal Building, Central Park
New York, NY
From the Academy Audio Archive