I'm making peace

with the dwindling

There is an understanding

between the will to

and the will not to,

in the room that opens into,

closes out of

 but I can't make sense

of the gross weight

of all the marks of moments

that sit, many-faced

like eastern godesses

on phonograms, in books

all around me and my urge for going,

up and down my sky and soil,

littering my silence

like the empty beer cans

of a death wish

behind a car

carrying the ”just married” sign

Insects are stinging my naked body

when I'm changing into bike clothes

under the Hat Mountain;

the laughing woman beating me

with a birch twig

to fend the swarm of horseflies off,

in all unlikeliness