Some damned thing keeps asking
How real is this, these trees,
This intermittent sun
On a rural highway?
Does it matter at all
Whether this is a dream,
A boring midday break
In a muddy pullout,
Or the contingent truth
Of shapeless emptiness?
The body wants to know
If its fluttering heart,
Twisted bones, faint muscles,
Compromised guts and skin
Allow themselves comfort
In a quiet moment
Or a few, among trees
And the occasional
Road songs of logging trucks,
Have they betrayed a world
Of more important things?
The sources of patterns
That contort into verse
Want badly to rebel
Against something
Worth making something else
But are nothing themselves,
A myriad nothings
Invisibly humming,
A wail of tiny words
Within these walls of trees
Hacked back, burned, and regrown
Quick as thoughts, selves, worlds, dreams.
The words aren't looking, but
A yearling mule-deer buck
Browses grass beside them.