distance precedes us

 

the space between feather

threads where the distance

is too far—your hand

passes over your face

this time

 

within the privet

wings thunder and recede

branches in the mouth

of the afternoon

 

we bend to pour our

selves into holes

left behind by thought

 

unlabeled undersides,

the thicket crowns above—

distraction

of what we think we know

 

and all the chattering voices

and car sounds in the distance

the call of a train, it all depends

on how you see yourself

 

infinite, unnamed potentials,

or pregnant stillness

that comes before the quake