Wasp resting in a pool of dew—the world
is my world—water spouting from the hose.
It darkens on the pavement (or rather,
the pavement darkens). It’s all a matter of seeing.
There is no order of things. Strawberry plants,
their runners—this crown, this node.
The word for this is “clone”—a slip or a twig.
Reproduction, as by cutting. A polyp
produced by buds. My daughter, she reaches
out to touch the ground,
holds her wet hands in the sun, wipes them
on her sleeve. I am fine with that. I spray
the splayed roots of an oak, the toothed ridges
of its leaves. The I is hardly there. I want
to see the leaf, its cells. Blood in my hand.
The dogwoods gain their blossoms.
Strawberries and barley wine, winter’s
coming to an end. We cannot think we cannot think,
We can’t say we can’t think. To what extent
solipsism is a truth. The berries hard, foreboding.
What shows itself
what appears—the innate
vibrancy of things—that moon
that shines is two feet wide. Speech—it names and puts a limit.
The tomato cages “shine.” Verbs with names, verbs with names.
Cloyed with sight, I watch the alders glisten, their branches
Meek and speckled with dew. We no longer understand
this unity because we have fallen away from the inceptive
distinction, which has developed historically, and now
what we carry around is merely something that—some
time, some place—was once put into circulation.
Then there are the lilacs, smelling of lilac, cloying
to these eyes—beyond a doubt. The chopped
copses glisten. Severed branches bleed their sap.
Clustered, in the summer, their / purple load will hang.