I would not want, I think, a higher intelligence, one
simultaneous, cut clean
of sequence. No,
it is our slowness I love, growing slower,
tapping the paintbrush against the visible,
tapping the mind.
We are, ourselves, a mannerism now,
out of the chain
So we grow fat with unqualified life.
Today, on this beach
I am history to these fine
pebbles. I run them
through my fingers. Each time
some molecules rub off
the invisible. Always
I am trying to feel
the erosion – my grandfather, stiffening
on his bed, learning
to float on time, his mind like bait presented
to the stream ongoing, or you, by my side,
sleep rinsing you always a little less
clean, or daily
of the right word, what it shuts,
or the plants coming forth as planned out my window, row
after row, sealed
I’ve lined all our wineglasses up on the sill,
a keyboard, a garden. Flowers of the poles.
I’m gifting each with a little less water.
You can tap them
Outside the window it’s starting to snow.
It’s going to get colder.
The less full the glass, the truer
This is my song
for the North
coming toward us.