The gates to nothingness


open an eighth of an inch each night



framed by trees


that grow





Among the leaves


blooms of durable insects



A limb reaches out into the emptiness


seeking to make contact


then grasp



You study all this from your bed


through your night goggles



the world that continues


without us







The drawers of thinking won’t close


so overflowing with non-disposables


and the ambushes of memory



Nothing put away


stays in place



The sound of no longer needed


body parts


dropping to the ground



You take a tiny rake


to clean up this mental landscape


a sort of curator gardener



paying your respects


to the wakefulness


of trees






Not just any plant


the most sensitive of plants


bends to your touch your presence



How could it be otherwise, mimosa,


waking up


to the weeping of flower heads


and larvae



the usual worm-


chatter and


dissonant turf?






Cold hard-working birds


drop out of a sky


ghosted with the colors


of their disappearance



You lay a torn sweatshirt on the pyre


some poems


an empty container of Roundup



intone some prophesies


based in statistics






Sleeping with moon-enameled branches


and silent pulses


of missing insects



Spears of cheap pillow down


set up a battle in one ear



while the trees persist


in their refusal


to be individuals



The rhizomes that aid


and abet them








The ceiling nods                                                                                              


in concert with the heads


of dried grass


rattling open your dream



Just as an imaginary Spring


was coming into bloom again



But you live in the age you live



The sound of generations


beat down on your head


using it as a drumskin of accusation



All that is broken, broken, broken






Out of the tree


cradling plastic


a forecast of sea



Above it


a stellar umbrella


unfolds for the 14 billionth time



Somewhere a reckoning ticks


but you aren’t listening



as you clip the eyebrow hairs


that curl down into the eyes


of the beloved






The notion of the soul as interiority


what crap tonight



The trees multiply the extensions


and extensions


of extensions


as metallic blankets


cover the ankles


of sleeping children



The night is loud


with the becoming of insects



the silence of plants


digesting another day’s-worth


of star material


along the fence lines








You get up to clear some space


on your desk of doubt



looking for a definition of love


you lost somewhere



Chains of ordinary kindness


self-perpetuating in thin air



A force that emanates radially



Now creatures free from bilateral being


are entangled in a canopy of forest-thinking


drenched in the language of rising seas



Octopi and other cephalopods


offer such appealing methods


of propulsion and perception


you are almost carried off by them



But the wind is picking up


and you are afraid of losing power



You open the windows


to feel the wet unleafing


of fixed positions



other planetary








So what has been the nature of your participation?


The method of your self-dispersion?


Have you taken part in disruption


when disruption was needed?



What limits have you set for your explorations?


What floor for your excavations?


Why just there and not further?



Do you find these questions unnerving?


Is that why you are both sweating and shivering?


Am I handing you a bouquet or a prize or an opportunity?



Tell us about your position in the scheme of ecosystem services


as opposed to, say, these trees


No need to worry


This is all just for informational purposes



Now diagram the nodes of your connectivity



Don’t forget to include the burrs


on your pants today


the jet streams and the rafts



the stowaways


riding the plastic ropes of the oceans





Snow takes the place of leaves


among things that fall





All that happens


but is unheard



The desire to live inside a picture:


streams and mountains


rocks and gorges—



This is the aesthetic of detachment



Trees are to landscape


as books to decorating…


a poet says, obscene



This is the environmental aesthetic



Another brings your attention


to the friends admiring the snow


in an era of general depravity—



The aesthetic of being together


in violent times