All day walking, noticed
nothing unusual, nothing
that came to me: grey wind,
insect glitterings. Came
to the moor edge, trackless,
dull, too many years dying.
The hand released what it held,
what those imagings meant.
It was the first time, a speck
of wing came away, that merely,
the dog licked my fingers,
the robin that’s bird of death
in my own country stared at me.
The event would not shape itself
as a stream’s name begins
from meandering waters.
A slight wind pulls at the cloth.
On the table a dead fly,
a water-drop, claim me minutely.
I am a small x in some place
I’ve begun to exist in.
The rain,
fills the pasture.
I listened as one who reaches
into a dream he cannot remember,
found nothing but edges, places
that quickly forget themselves,
words that aren’t true.