No. 1
I could settle on what I see, but
I resist the view the way I have always resisted
this town its mess of bricks this granite ledge.
The river is the only thing I’ve ever come
to terms with & not even the river (which has a name)
but the water passing through.
Dust to dust makes sense, I suppose, if you’re digging up
graves to make space for fresh dead—
(which begs the question: who will tie my white hair
around his wrist when the time comes to switch
the houselights off for good?)
Why bring death
into the scene at all, except that my mouth
is unusually dry
& my intelligence mostly water
& there is a mirror at the end of the tunnel,
we were told
that justifies these barren days.