Detritus

11/21/14

As the rain is my witness, I have discarded inadequate bundles of life like little
sticks with titles; Lost Loves and Things I Used to Believe and The Pleasures of Self-Pity
in Disguise. Up ahead another story, cleansing itself with its paws, and farther, the river
roaring like a rampant conviction and the wilderness of a cloud passing.
Something about the moon, something about grass and the direction of the wind on
a quiet night. The door opening and no one there but me, about to step out of myself, my
body talking to the air as if the only thing alive in the world contained both of us, some
creature about to enter the unknown of itself because it’s no longer alone and the night is
warm and part of it and speaking. A beauty so persistent I felt sad.
I went to sleep with my sadness and awoke clinging. Sad delight, awake and depart
claws. Some departing sun of crossed boxes, held like that, not trembling but ancient. I
seem to be sinking. No rest for the very.
A beauty so sad and long I grow persistent. There’s a reason for this, but it’s
upriver and it’s broken and it’s floating. The passing of a wilderness clouding my sky.
My wilderness now, piece by piece, loose on the great bus of river. Outside the trial, the
sun was waiting to report the clouds’ motion to adjourn. The tour guide was soaked and
sleeping and I climbed back inside him and pointed out the precedents, which bobbed and
seemed to be waving as they passed though probably they too were sleeping.



Rich Ives is the author of Tunneling to the Moon: A Psychological Gardener’s Book of Days currently being published in serial @ Silenced Press everyday in 2014 and forthcoming in paperback. Begin from the beginning, catch up, read daily. Just refer to the Burrow Guide.