This morning the sudden sound of Canada geese

squalling over was followed by a velvet silence.

Behind us, the backlit field

and lagoon and the lake.

Every day I am dangling.

Every day, for three

weeks, and I suppose it is dangerous

to desire a world just like this.

I’ll have to go back. It is pleasing too much

to have it for always. But also I find I am

missing my normal self up as I am

against truth. I change

one word and stain my paper

with awe. Then zigzag back

to some suffering. Would you forgive me for never

being finished with what has receded?

For not also needing to recite every bit of it?

I strike the reason to run across every hurt.

My heart is gathering observations as my work.

What word is a day? What is a day, again? The water

falls over the rock and recomposes as thick

greening light. Home right now

is invisible. I make a mark.