Today, I will remember to feed the dogs, as I’m on a regimen
of remembering things. And then I will remember
I fed the dogs. The region forms around us and we say
we are of the region, branch and bird growing old together, as one,
flying into a cloud, wanting to mark the periphery of cloud,
until all things become cloud, insolid moments
of larger understanding, as mostly empty space passing through
mostly empty space. The game stays the game, they say, they say.
I had a Tarot reading once, visiting St. Louis, and the cards
kept coming up Wands, right-side up, upside down,
a mish-mash of Wands. I don’t remember if it was good
or bad news, just that they were coming up Wands. Enough
for everyone, that I could go running down the street bestowing wands.
You have to find some magic in something. It’s the best way,
keeping going, as through a museum or church.
Spiraling concrete walks. Paths. Stepping stones.
What’s nice about concrete is that it looks unfinished,
Zaha Hadid says, and yeah, there’s possibility in that.
On some days I don’t feel haunted at all. It fluctuates,
Vitruvian orders framing the room, shaking the walls
that cannot be disassociated from their shaking. You live in it,
unfinished. You’re part of it, framing the abandoned
countryside. The kitchen timer goes off, a shifting harmony
that fills the afternoon by turns, low clouds today,
a kind of steam over the fields. The game stays the game.
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