On the Last Day

I left the protection 

of my plan & my 

thinking. I let my self

go. Is this the hope I

thought. Light fled.

We have a world

to lose I thought.

Summer fled. The

waters rose. How

do I organize myself now. How do I 

find sufficient

ignorance. How do I 

not summarize 

anything. Is this mystery, 

this deceptively complex 

lack of design. No sum

towards which to strive. No 

general truth. None.

How do I go without 

accuracy. How do I 

go without industry.

No north or

south. What shall I

disrupt. How find

the narrowness. 

The rare ineffable 

narrowness. Far below 

numbers. Through and behind

alphabets and their hiving, swarming—here,

these letters. I

lean forward

looking for the anecdote

which leads me closer to

the nothing. I do not

lack ideas. I do not

fail to see

how pieces

fall together. I do

not fail to be

a human companion

to the human. I am

not skeptical. I

I'm seeking to enter the in-

conspicuous. Where the stems

of the willows

bend when I

step. There is dream in them 

I think. There is 

desire. From this height

above the ground I see

too much. I need

to get down, need to

get out of the reach

of the horizon. Are

these tracks from this

summer or how many years

ago. Are these

grasses come again now,

new. This is being

remembered. Even as it

erases itself it does not 

erase the thing

it was. And gave you.

No one can tell the whole story.