I follow calling up the previous for reassurance.
That occasions outlast themselves. {That a} day
of no nice private achieve or loss inscribes itself
someplace. The way in which I hold in my thoughts
two snakes entwined and falling
to my toes as I walked below an oak tree
one July. The way in which I ran down the hill
as if the snakes cared sufficient to chase me.
The way in which that second stalks me, its tongue
flickering even now as I move below sure
boughs and concern or really feel a thud
of what’s not there, which twists
round what’s: the air, the leaves,
the roots that weave out and in of the mud,
serpentine and mingling with the previous
to make a rain of snakes eternally
attainable. I have to imagine that peculiar
bushes—from which no our bodies fall—
can go away an imprint, furrow my mind with their
forgettable grey branches in the midst of winter,
all of the leaves having already dropped from them.
