139. Against Clarity

In justice and without
spring in the face of leaves turning
against green, and that hope
of moving through a cycle
as if life continues against
the end of life, I see

in justice and without
some fine entity of consequence
let loose to roam, the articles
of life’s lonely consideration
of the fact of alteration from
the movement of the spirit, and I see

in justice and the shadowed
recesses of eyes, in stairways of
deepening darkness and the echoing
sound of a swallowed word of air
and that crust of air, a single tendency
to exist as contemplation, and I find

in justice and without it,
and the weights levied on either side
to bolster earth up against,
the virulent tide, red and vacuous,
the sky at dusk, the sky at dawn,
onset and the living tissue rent, where I find

in justice, the rising of eyelids, the raising of
shades and sun spilling like water
spilling like light spilling and through
my fingers, head turned to face
whatever isn’t happening so that
it might not happen, and then I know

in justice for the lower ranges of
humanity, contumely against the least held
breath, released as if a bird against
the great invisible wind and woodsmoke
swirling the wind white-grey, and
it is a physical fact that I know

in justice and better than
I understand myself that the breath
of the earth surrounds me and
extends past the reach of reason,
slips into my mouth, my nose, my ears,
the various openings of my body, where I feel

in justice and without it, the weight
of water on my head, on my tongue,
sloshing inside the upturned and cupped
palm of my hand, and the currents of
each of those blowing hard against the palm
to rattle its spiny shadow, whenever I feel

in justice and the food in my belly,
the weight of ripe red tomatoes thick
and sprinkled with vinegar, olive oil, and salt,
red chile sauce on a cheese enchilada,
and beans, so that I feel ripe and veering
towards soft but solid soil, where I hear

in justice and its mantel, the sound
of birdflight against the bright blue air
and ribbons of clouds festooning sky,
as I listen to the oracle and auricle
and beat my blood into the semblance of
the future I cannot see, but I hear

in justice and with justice’s pride,
all perfected reason that leads to
every faulty decided fate, and the conical
formations rising out of the basement
of my dreams, perfect spinning spires
rising into rays of light, and I know

in justice and with justice’s sure aim,
the shot that fires straight and straight
across, what might not hit its mark but
that makes that sound of flying and
the sound of hitting hard
into the target of a single thought that I know

in justice and engaging every herded thought,
the means by which each striated fingernail
scratching against every plain but dimpling
surface, orchestrates regret and opens
into each blossom of the heart
the wrinkled thumbprint of this simple art.