103. The Momen’t and Movemen’t

like the order
      of the night
      against the process
of the day

in the manner of
      speaking a word
      through the method
of writing it out

to write is a pencil
      thinking of coyotes,
      the night of wonder,
and the extension of

night into day
      recirculation of
      time, of words,
of the bare walking

of feet across
      the grassy carpet,
      like the hope, well,
the experience of being

awake in the event
      of a life, every Venetian
      moment, canals separating
land from land by water,

the great sea in salted
      surface, tide of reason
      and reason for doing, rising
sea as humidity as sweat

as the earth and you
      are the same substance,
      protyle and protoplasm,
so you exist as part

of a whole you will
      never quite see,
      but its greatest part
for only from that point

moving in motioned
      space can you perceive
      the storm surge of
reality, what comes at

you in the moment’s
      momen’t, well, as
      you know, we never
know what we don’t

know or sometimes
      what we don’t want
      to know—we want
what we want, and see

what we want
      to see (the ocean
      retracts but only
after it reaches out

to us) and what
      can we teach
      of the past
except what we

forgot to remember
      about it, all these
      tiny movements
of our fingers, of

eyelids and what
      they blink away
      from what we see,
of individual hairs

on our body,
      and yet they
      are all forgotten,
and we retain but

the gist of our lives,
      like a movie that
      terrifies us
to tears but we

reduce to that final
      scene and they finally
      die, a strangled hope
at the last second,

which is the only
      second we live,
      that very last before
the next overtakes it.