lxxxiii.

a brief glow, the dark becomes dark,
I cannot see--the whole cannot

be recounted, in reflection, there
is too much, the staircase slants

cuts, not twists

at the bottom--who knows? no,
shadow, certain--who can remember:

wet-wood morning, damp mulch, the
moon, high and tight, the hills rise,

they slope, the avenues of trees, impenetrable,
the shuddering emptiness, of the desert--

the light cast over the asphalt, and the lamp
in the window, the third-floor office, who knows--

the boulevard grinding, the sun sunders the dusk
from the day--the sun falls into the cleft, at the

intersection, the crowd falls away, in the hallway,
who can say--the lights hang from the eaves, smoke

rises up into the balcony, on the lee-side the couch
is willing to welcome, the night shivers ice and the

space heater groans, the afternoon sun filters through
the basil, through sparse of roof of leaves over

the bench, the stress unfold endless, and woodsmoke,
sage, rosemary in the morning--the leaves like stars

in the puddles, when it flooded, the sage waves in
the wind, the golden hour and blue dawn, and the

eucalyptus whispers, it doesn't keep its promises--
and who can say, but I think, the storm pipe in

the morning, and the night spiraling into burnt
remnants, and manzanita, and the king oak,

the house falling into the swamp, and the dream
I had, where I walked up to the pepper tree

at the bend, branches hanging low, over the curve,
and the crest, before the sun fell below the trees,

it bathed everything it color, and the moon full
and huge, and low, over the bamboo, over the canal

through the rounded entrance below the foot-bridge,
the chill air, and the scent of garlic, the strange

shivering water below the pier, and in the second story
above the tables, and in the empty, and in the park space

behind the shopping center, where the trees hung wide,
branches low, the plaza before it and the entrance,

and the memory of bamboo, whispering, I think, and
I think it's true that: the time when all stories

could be told at one time, the ice on the plains, and the
bridges frozen, over the delta, the yellow-green northern

fields, and snow piled to the windows, the black branch
against the grimy cinder-block walls, smoke and foreign

words, twice over, and once again--the plants on the sill,
the door hung open, the porch as the light came running

down the ridges, the loping canyons, the oven warm--
it scents the room, the room like a coffin, like a den, like

a closet, like a cell--like a cave, the road along the coast,
the sea of lights, moving, shot through the valley--the,

and I think, it is true, it is certain--bricked in buildings,
and light hanging low in the dogwoods, the unbearable heat

it is true--that the time when all stories were one, could be
told at one time--the age of viable explanation,

that time is over, all stories were one, but that--
--it's alright, that time is over, it's alright.