I am not remembering how oikos and logos
join hands in The Song of the Earth, I am remembering
the way my breath made frosted fairies in the air
outside of the coffee shop on 14th avenue
where I first sat and cracked the spine.
I am remembering the crows that congregated
in the blue clamor of that cold morning, remembering
the way my tongue tapped at the roof
of my mouth in finale of corvid.
I am remembering the crater I discovered in the butter
the night before, scrape of cat tongue,
and the resinous perfume of the juniper bush in winter.
I am remembering the mutant strawberry
from the summer, two heads sprouting from green hair,
and the coyote that stood alone on the wet pavement
of the middle road, night’s rain and headlights,
the resplendency of home-hunger.
I am remembering how urgent the river looked
on my walk to this office, how deceptively it moved,
remembering how, once, it held me too close,
far too close, and how an eagle bisected
the river’s path just a minute before the embrace,
the million black pupils of the hillside rudbeckia gazing up,
seeing something I could only feel.
I am remembering the gentle rock of the boat in July
when the engine went out and shore was just a concept,
a thought spoken in a dream, the endless blue,
and every color just a concept, remembering
how language unspooled in those hours
watching the evening light paint my image on the sea.