A Slim Volume Taken Into the Provinces

and hungry to avoid

crossing the snow as the noon

burns the crust

into an un-servable lake

slush instead of the crisp bridge

that would be in order

to get me over the ridge

My journal is already laundered clean

of my words      and my instructions

have dissolved

into a white mash       a washed bone

ball         rolled into itself

of all I have in the world       in my pocket

The ink is thin the paper is poor

my eyes balance on the pale

words around which a stream

flows     almost erasing

the way across

the idea

Shadows         the black flowers

of the light self

-sowing through the trees

dark gardens        of midnight

for the gray-white morning

hour        of blindness

in print miles before I am

to arrive        here

To approach the waiting milestone

dims whatever else of its lantern

‘til only the placed light there is on me.

In this light       barely      but used to it

I can make out the staggered columns of my account

as if back through weren’t the real distance:

the thin chest flag pinned on by each ridge

the titled introduction taking your coat each storm.

My letters and ribbons have been the natural—

strengths on their way to the more—

natural weaknesses—         and loss.        yet—

I wonder where I thought I was going—

to ’ve done what you must pass

examinations for before I took any.