and the spores whose options are always open

who were born ready

engage their locking jaws

then what had no plan is all plan

lichen’s vow is to embody the composition of the universe

less meaning than a way for meaning to emerge

rock groans under it, gnashes its teeth

but gives in, as everything does

you wouldn’t want to think about it all the time

short, as I am, on deliberate qualities

I would at least rather have death find me breathing normally

even if soaked to the bone in the vanity of seclusion

owing to the excesses of solitude nearly hairless

ascetic to the point of ephemerality and suddenly you can’t hold a shovel

for Pelagius, good deeds and actions are born

in the rational mind, not from grace

he didn’t believe in original sin

you can imagine the trouble he got into over that

old Pelagius, keeping it dry

the nothing I do, my unmade works, the no one I love

the life brought to naught

but might one’s hands not always be empty?

A visitation . . .

A visitation

Paul, why are you here?

I would sooner send my spirit out walking between the hailstones

than have you drive it to its corner on the fork of your advice

May Island’s undead party orchestra is playing behind the wind, the barking seals

and my little fire’s jumping like a bird tied to a branch

a mist of souls accumulates above the wave action

there are voices in the particles flung wildly about

but you are not the sea, Paul, you have no reason to be here

you are cold crept in to murder my seedling

your ellipses are the stuff of nightmares

I have outlived my future, why invite its ghosts

to bother me where I sleep?

they laugh at the fool wringing his old hands at having burned the beetle

with the kindling

they laugh because I think I am alive

it confuses me, Paul

do you hear the music inside

the May’s everlasting housefire?

do you see the loneliness streaming from its broken windows

like smoke in every direction?

He enquires of the silence . . .

He enquires of the silence

rock ages, is swarmed by a peppery crottle

grasses grow around the crevices small creatures move into

grasses that draw minerals through their stems

I feel it happening all around me

the teachings say no earthly thing is worthy of affection or contemplation

barnacles, mussels, the Patella vulgata

look dried out and foolish at low tide

but I see nothing fallen here

when evening in its uniform jangles its key ring

lyrics float through our common hour

if it’s of no use to us, is it useless?

if it’s useless, does it still not deserve to live?

AN ENTHUSIAST

Endless heritage beneath the heavenly soundshed.

Jet-black amphiboles. Ten varieties of scones

in Elie. Giant centipedes and petrified tree stumps