World that trembles on the edge of
futures that might never be: beneath 

the epithets we give, whose essence 
is gone before we name the cataract 

that whips water to foam as it falls 
on rock? World pressed into litanies---

intangibles of nacre and hum, blur of midges' 
eyelash wings; spiders' threads lighter than 

syllables that vaporized almost as soon as 
we tried to sew them to our wrists. Finally,  

can we believe that everything we'd ever
need was right here in our midst; that vines

traveling across the flanks of buildings once
held small white trumpets announcing months,

years, the passage of time when we thought 
it was still something we could count.

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