There isn’t one way to bear witness
to the world, or one place to feel its spine
through the lustrous energy of light.
I pour between
the beakers of one moment
and the next.
The horizon is a fallow field
accepting the seed of moon,
the trees are shrouds draped over
a paralyzed asphalt river.
I’ll travel blind under this strangle of clouds,
I’ll bury the pieces of myself
in deep woods and I’ll search for them
in the bleak ice after time.