- after William Basinski
Too much like music, this sound. Hard earth becoming
mud earth becoming. Blue whales at midnight. Grief’s legibility and then
not. I was expecting more of winter.
What falls apart there.
Static is intentional. The way salmon swim upwards.
Against. Thrashing. Blood in the water, a loosening
knot. This sounds like comfort. The way some part of me
can be found snagged in every nearby tree, roof, post worth climbing.
More apparent than fracture: this record. How a voice
can feel like a church. How pith finds its needy clothing
then breaks from it. So easy to discern: that surrender.
I mostly find life in my dog’s eyes. Niagara frozen over in glass.
I hit my head & see blurry. Draw spirals for the doctor one way
then another. I am always involved in this. The tape deck is ripping in. Castoff is hard to pin-
point. To what is owed memorial? My trees never make
noises — knocking, whistling or otherwise. There are better ways to pass the time.
Rudderless, we sense a small shifting: to every draft a ghost
assigned. Tides rush in. The pain scale only goes up
to ten. There is no space too small to live inside. My
ghosts all have ages. There are those that have been lost at sea.
Grace knows she’s queen to the last. Hyssop
is spreading only in dreams. A small dog walks
slow over ice. An irrational number & who uses
this. Hippasus, our garden muse. A crown pocked with tiny weeds.
Small trees live inside me. This noise becomes that one
and all colors pretend something. Suddenly new instruments.
I tend to the fenceline: its tasseled debris. Lose track of
intention. To be is not more than listening.