Reportless Subjects, to the Quick / Continual addressed—
—Emily Dickinson

if what etches into your eyes leaves a small canyon     in its trough
is there the chattering speech
I don’t think it’s enough to say images     seen     the still Aleppo pine needles
a tarp billowing at the lower winds are a weather     how long could you look

in the foreground at a wet child who isn’t you
the two bits of peeling white light she tossed into us feel like a skein
a weight     water falling down your back in the bath     a salted
silver-edged negative pressing you to the steady light impulse
neither of us will absorb     winking in it all the while by its known waves
the state’s cargo planes keep from folding into our street

having lost a few peoples running in superfluity the sky behaves itself
over bamboo that grows here wild or bedded     with river stones hauled
come to rest their smoothing ends but not the infinitive daughter
gone to run away with water as one of her rhymes