It is necessary to think of a poem
that is itself and its other at once.
In Maine, lost: a woman offered
to drive us down the road.
The work of the poem, an opening into
the way we view the world.
She found us under
her garage, protection from the rain.
What is present and absent, built
into our artifice.
We had with us: maps, a compass,
notebooks, a collection of stones and leaves.
Poetic language rises from other
poetic language, pointing back.
We thought of calling, then didn’t. The rain
stopped soon after it began.
Becoming is a resistance to order.
Absence is always present.
Bodies are always discovered when
there is no more use for them, as in
her body was discovered
in her apartment this morning.
The world and the earth exist
as each other’s other.
Your body discovered in motion,
I remember, I wasn’t there.
The beginning already contains
the end latent within itself.
But this was all before. We found a tree
capsized, its roots exposed.
What kind of language did we have
for each other? Language
requires casting into poetry in order to see
what is there and what is not.
There will always be
more I could have said.