The Great Unstitching
Every day we invent this age’s
place in spurts, pockets. This is our
city, the unsaid net that lets
humans and cars live together
peacefully, these are the buildings,
this is a park. Fewer people to
conceptualize the countryside,
they do more work. These fields
are here and alive. The chickens
will eat what we give them. Here
are the stars above our homes.
In the wild spots where few or
no people live, the places blow
about, blurred. The desert shifts
some of its cells. Water lifts a little,
sinks. No pine needles fall, then,
a pine needle falls, four more. Here
no one knows what truth is escaping.
The Great Unstitching has begun,
it is good, no one is here to scream.