I assumed the first step in disintegration
               was to exist but a goldfinch

in the supermarket rafters was all it took
               to upend me. Truthfully, I understand

very little about the world. Certainly not
               the harmonics of the heating vent,

least of all the wind, what makes it go
               cold fronts, jet streams. It would make more sense

if there was just one wind, a big one, rattling
               back and forth, more drawn to some textures

than others. Really, these are just trillings
               into the great peat bog, thin places

for you to pierce, dowsing rods for a pulse.
               My neighbor jogs each morning in ankle weights

and each morning I am shocked. My disbelief
               at known outcomes, these chronic

chirps of joy—it’s this particular cleft of bewilderment
               and beauty that makes it

so difficult to live and to stop.

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