September

and what is this quality of duration, this resolution,

or the way resolve turns itself over

stone fruit, strong coffee, sorting sense from sense

turning the oven on and off, running the laundry, opening and closing windows

tending the garden (winged things)

a repetition of something basically present or maybe irreducible

and then, by turns, some other joy, or the dream of a citrus tree

I would like, sometimes, to suspend my suspicion and inhabit—

inhabit is a domestic word—

a sense of holding the instant close, or to allow a certain structure

to emerge, an awareness of a narrativity,

a narrative perspective, experience the staged-ness of things

a gaze or a smile or a displacement and cultivate new meaning

nights and sleeves and impressions, name them in a sort of soundscape

a description, some principles of structure

or to suspend what I perceive as difficult

this slow wasting