small shark’s-tooth-

shaped fragments

of rest angled

in it. An hour

of city holds maybe

a minute of these

remnants of a time

when silence reigned,

compact and dangerous

as a shark. Sometimes

a bit of a tail

or fin can still

be sensed in parks.

FELIX CROW

Crow school

is basic and

short as a rule—

just the rudiments

of quid pro crow

for most students.

Then each lives out

his unenlightened

span, adding his

bit of blight

to the collected

history of pushing out

the sweeter species;

briefly swaggering the

swagger of his

aggravating ancestors

down my street.

And every time

I like him

when we meet.

WEAK FORCES

I enjoy an accumulating

faith in weak forces—

a weak faith, of course,

easily shaken, but also

easily regained—in what

starts to drift: all the

slow untrainings of the mind,

the sift left of resolve

sustained too long, the

strange internal shift

by which there’s no knowing

if this is the road taken

or untaken. There are soft

affinities, possibly electrical;

lint-like congeries; moonlit

hints; asymmetrical pink

glowy spots that are not

the defeat of something,

I don’t think.

THE ELEPHANT IN THE ROOM

It isn’t so much

a complete elephant

as an elephant

sense—perhaps

pillar legs supporting

a looming mass,

beyond which it’s

mostly a guess.

In any case, we

manage with relative

ease. There are just

places in the room

that we bounce off

when we come up

against; not something

we feel we have to

announce.

A BALL ROLLS ON A POINT

The whole ball

of who we are

presses into

the green baize

at a single tiny

spot. An aural

track of crackle

betrays our passage

through the

fibrous jungle.

It’s hot and

desperate. Insects

spring out of it.

The pressure is

intense, and the

sense that we’ve

lost proportion.

As though bringing

too much to bear

too locally were

our decision.

THE BEST OF IT

However carved up

or pared down we get,

we keep on making

the best of it as though

it doesn’t matter that

our acre’s down to

a square foot. As

though our garden

could be one bean

and we’d rejoice if

it flourishes, as

though one bean

could nourish us.

CHINESE FOOT CHART

Every part of us

alerts another part.

Press a spot in

the tender arch and

feel the scalp

twitch. We are no

match for ourselves

but our own release.

Each touch

uncatches some

remote lock. Look,

boats of mercy

embark from

our heart at the

oddest knock.

SHIPWRECK

I was shipwrecked beneath a stormless sky
in a sea shallow enough to stand up in.

—Fernando Pessoa

They’re laughable

when we get there—

the ultimate articulations

of despair: trapped

in a tub filling with

our own tears, strapped

to a breadstick mast

a mouse could chew

down, hopping around

the house in paper shackles

wrist and ankle. It’s

always stagey. Being