We have them, and live and think about them,
But then, what are they? Some seem like
Bigger deals than the rest, like those of big enchiladas
Or the CEOs of banks too big to fail, but why? Some seem
Meaningful for their commitments and accomplishments,
As no doubt they are, though most are unexceptional
And ordinary, and just fine for that. They’re all equal

There seems to be, about certain lives,
A vague, violent frame, an imperceptible
Halo of uncertainty, diffidence and taste

Later we began to learn to live
At the mouth of this well of the pure desire
For an end of wanting, the descent into the sun.

As one who thinks of poetry
As a way of talking to yourself,
I probably do too much explaining,
For that’s what talking to yourself is like:
The things you can’t explain to anyone
Are suddenly made clear to no one, as though
Nobody mattered but yourself. And it’s the same

Photo: sitting by the cabin on Lake Au Train
We rented every summer, reading John Cheever,

The stance is one of supplication, but to whom?
Time pours into the present, while a greater,
Vaguer presence menaces the borders of that country

We change to keep all else the same

Crows fill the tree, get up
one by one, heavy, together

Caught here in your limestone cave,
lost in a limbo of slow water torture,
for you, each day is night always.

A tallow worked into a knot
of rawhide, with a ball of waxy light
tied to a stick, the boy

You huddle into a shield or breastplate,
a whisper in the dark summoning your kin 
one by one along the frontier. In your kingdom,