—further out than any of it, than this and that,

than the togethers, the whatevers,

the coulds and the maybe these, there’s this,

further out than presence, way past it,

past its fulfilment, its makeshift ends, then its hollow tubes becoming vines,

vines wound round what is pending, the strung-out possible, there’s this,

as it happens, as it rushes through, this flexible enclosure,

its bare trees in occasional flame, in strident uprushings of burnt crumb and rose,

until collaged cries stumble across the grass,

what I would do to have this again, this operatic moment, knowing it,

to be in its duration and not even wanting to blink, when it comes,

here it comes, my body like a rock in the stream of its dimensions, knowing,

no matter what I do I will not have this again,

even as I stand upon it, even as I breathe it in,

it glides, it skids, it snakes, it will not stop, will not focus,

not even on you, your morning gaze through the window,

as I find you again in the amber dust of an afternoon, even as I ask you

I slide—through the fleshed-out compendium,

the tangled situations, the arteries of our conversations

dangling in mid-air,

I ripped it out, you out, the lyrics on my playlist compel me,

turn, turn away, away from you to what? when? out across the gardens,

the ancient boats, the apartments balancing precariously, further out

across this tipped planet, its impossible brink, words breaking off

like relations and scattering across sierras, across tables, ricocheting like shards of flak,

words thudding into pillows and other soft surfaces—wet soil,

fresh breads, our shabby husks—still further out, past all of this,

I am combing my memories but there are signs that blind me,

that race off into the expanse—turn,

the song says, turn away, can I cherish this unfurling, ebullient field as an orb,

or does it recede, or does it fissure into possibilities,

to re-emerge in huddles of churned sediment,

forever to the outskirts of what I can grasp?