84

consciousness is a kind of planet, inscribed
on the outside with whatever’s seen or done,

trekked or swum, climbed or scrambled down,
while inside the molten moves (drives, slow

shifts) redispose how the surface lies: we’re
wardens, gardeners, waterworkers of the self

keeping the circulations clear and the light
bright; except, of course, we clog everything

up and dumb everything down dim:

I sit alone back to the window

in a square of winter sun:

the curve of the earth

sinking into the deep beyond

falls away all around me:

nothing holds us up but

a centering in motion, the great

sun, unpropped, its center being

hauled off, too,

motion finding its ties

with greater clusters and

centers enveloping

what’s up?
what’s up?
what’s up?
what?
what?