I
This twilight hour (a dance, a sorting of parts)
swells the innards of anyone daring to pay attention
I do--
sometimes
and feel the twitch of difference
a liver of difference, a thyroid of difference
a different thought for each damp moment
(It is late spring
we're hungry for rain
the fires are spreading)
II
I know it is midnight: trees are hushed,
given over to the buzz of other life
III
My life leans--still
Each branched hand dissolves
repairs, receives the implosion of darkness
It's enough,
I tell myself
as a root in the ground
an imagined provider to this wilderness
IV
A frog croaks and I know
the morning fog
the sensation of warm water flowing around my body
the taste of ripened fruit
the pang of a still-vacant stomach
It's enough,
I tell myself
always at the moment the world comes
teeming at me in counteraction
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