Jorie Graham

it came, before the turn in the cherishedwind, what we called history, the turntowards, all of it more and moretowards – what is it that iscoming – must come – unfathomable, unbreakable – you want it so, yourfuture, no thefuture, sobadly – you standon the threshold of your century as on a highparapet, brush in hand, a ladder wrinkling the air as it rises,a kind of...

the river was still widening as it went, as it carried me, thick mists risingoff it all day,was still widening, yes, for a while longer, holdingthe sky in its belly and back,me on my back in the small ofmy boat, rudder jammed, oarlost or is it I tossed itsome long time agowhen I imagined myselfto be free. In the distance I see, reflected in the spooling,a pair of spyglasses liftedby the...

after years of virga, aftermuch almost& much never again, aftercoalescing in dry

lightning & downdrafts & fire,after taking an alternatepath thruhistory & bypassing

us, after the trees,after the gardens,after the hard seedspushed in as deep as

possible & kept alive on dew,after the rutswhich it had once cutfilled in with

dust & moulds – & podsthat...

before the storm isthe storm. Our waiting tunnelling outward, chewing at the as-yet-not-here, wild,& in it thenot-yet,that phantom, hovering, scribbling hints in the dusty airshafts where weawait rain whichonce again will not come, though something we think of as the stormwill. Steeped in no-colour colour. Smothering hopes with falsepromises, as wind comes up and we feel our soul turn...

Then the drone came. A small personal drone. Hung at anintimate height. Hadmuch to say. Hovering,eye to eye, lurching &chattering. Is it your time now, I thought. Thoughtit saidyou should have learned tolove but came upclose, saw it was old, had beenpatched thousands oftimes, maybe more, was medalled with debris,a tin castle, a wooden fish, a rattle – a plasticclock w/one hand...