The Writer Pays Attention

More of a collagist than a writer,
The world only adds, never erases,
Change harnessing paradox in traces.

If all you ever do is add, you change
And, at a minimum, erase the way
The world was before you added to it.

Since you can’t undo the adding, that world
Has vanished, never to exist again.
The collagist knows this and is obsessed

With obliteration by addition,
The world’s inability to be rid
Of itself by changing itself, adding

And burying, overlapping, adding—
It’s meaningful, if you pay attention.

Dying Gods Have Less to Say

It’s like you can’t conjure,
Can’t maintain the waking,
Which is so massive, which

Requires so much detail.
It’s work to float a world.
When you were good at it,

It was easy to trust
It was really just there,
That you didn’t make it,

Only woke up to it
Waiting for your return.
Now, just to be in it,

You have to be aware
Of keeping it going,
And it’s just too much work.

You’re not here to comment,
Not barely making it—
Look, could you help with this?

Field Trip

Too dark for daytime activities yet,
Cuddle alone in bed and read through scads

Of poems by other people, other years.
You’re always looking for something, afraid

You’ll find it common or nonexistent.
Common, and you’re like everyone, even

If they don’t know it, even if they don’t
Admit you as one of their common club.

Nonexistent, and you feel like that kid
At the lake on the day of the field trip

When everyone’s on the buddy system,
And you burst through the water, swimming hard,

Swimming with purpose, proud of your swimming,
Deeper in the water than anyone,

Only to realize that you’re alone.
You’re odd kid out. You don’t have a buddy.

Nobody swims like you. They’re all playing
Where the fun is the social confusion,

Belonging, politics, comparison.
You trundle around the edge of the lake,

Watching them as it dawns on you, swimming
Is common, real bonding nonexistent.

Maybe We’ll See You Again Someday

Days happened. Happened. Arrangements
Were made. And then more days happened.
Acquaintance floated in and out,

Extending, even if losing
Quickly whatever had been built
In the days of interaction.

From the slope, there was the mesa.
Behind the mesa, the mountain.
Behind the mountain, another

And back again. The way the world
Was made, made to guarantee days,
During which people got to know

Each other before they forgot.
More days would keep on happening.
Happening would ensure things changed.

Go outside and stare at something.
That happened, people like to say.
It was nice getting to know you.

How Atypical You Are

By and large unaware of itself,
Everything. Sit by a busy road,
And the traffic is obviously

Up to many somethings, the drivers
Daydreaming or talking on their phones,
But the hills in the distance just sit.

The hills do not matter to the hills.
No entities are corresponding
To what you call the hills anyway.

There’s something messing with your senses,
And you have plenty of words for it,
But it’s not considering itself

Except in the strained, indirect sense
That you are part of it and, as such,
Could be said to be considering

The hills as part of the hills themselves.
But that’s stretched pretty thin, isn’t it?
A nearly sheer wall of basalt rocks

Stands where, as lava, it cooled and stopped,
But the rocks don’t matter to the rocks,
Universe unaware of itself.