"The Origin" of what happened is not in language-- of this much I am certain. Six degrees south, six east-- and you have it: the bird with the blue feathers, the brown bird-- same white breasts, same scaly ankles. The waves between us-- house light and transform motion into the harboring of sounds in language. Where there is newsprint the fact of desire is turned from again-- and again. Just the sense that what remains might well be held up-- later, as an ending. Twice I have walked through this life-- once for nothing, once for facts: fairy-shrimp in the vernal pool-- glassy-winged sharp-shooter on the failing vines. Count me-- among the animals, their small committed calls.-- Count me among