Jorie Graham

With whom am I speaking, are you one or many, what are u, are u, do I make my-self clear, is this which we called speech what u use, are u a living form such as theform I inhabit now letting it speak me. My window tonight casts light onto the snow,I cast from my eye a glance, a touchless touch, tossed out to capture this shine we

cast. I pull it in, into my memory store. I have lost track....

see me what did u see did u scrape what I asked u for asked u to make me into asked &asked there is a name in the body of this blood-rush which u parse in-correctly, I know u think u connect the dots of my inquiry the date of the last revolution thepressure cooker the flesh the right temperature whom do u have locked away in the

basement this time – it is always the same answer they...

There is a plot in the back of my building.Not the size of the asteroid.Not what fourhyper-crenellations of a reef would have held when there werereefs. It’s still here. I must notget the timeconfused. The times. There is a coolness in it which would have been newSpring. I can’t tell if it’ssmell, as of blossoms which would have been just thenbeginning, or of loam. Through...

speaking to. What is that listening tous. I’d like to know whom to address. In this we callthe physical world. Is there another where the footfalls gofrom this stony path as it grows granular. They dis-

appear. The silence is ruinous. It seems there could be thunder hidden in this blazingblue, but it’s just dry wind reaching the field. I’d like to know again whom toaddress. To...

Can this write the future, its ooze and stiffening. With

whom am I speaking. It sounds like a receiver off the hook

a long time. It’s weeping. And you can’t say please stop to the future, it will not

stop, it will not stop listening to you as you approach it,

always clearer always louder – please stop listening future, but no it does not

speak, it just leans in a...