Friday, April 10, 2015

the world's continuous coming-into-being

seems like hallucination
this correspondence between
inner and outer landscapes 

an unmapped theatre
of attachment and belonging 

committed to a quest whose
necessity I could not refute
I lay in the darkness, felt a sense
of wildness at work in the world
memories a narrow, nameless fragment 

longing for isolated islands
and a few happy moments
fading back into darkness
like an irregular drumbeat

or simply two rough circles of light

how exposed I felt, an in-
between creature with rough, 
natural shape half-human, half-
marine, I creaked and groaned
like a whale on the move

yet fearless, an exile beached
out of sight of the sea, charmed
by the moon’s ability to silver the world
by wind’s voice, a braid of notes
to think in ways possible nowhere else

submarine twisting of currents
swarmed up a hundred-foot windstorm
territorial conflicts with biological 

revelation, rooks haggled in the air
as though I were not there at all

Found poem, from Robert Macfarlane's The Wild Places. New York: The Penguin Group, 2007. Print.

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