From “Coleshill”

The deer racing across a field of the same clay and tallow color they are—if they are: or are they tricks of the light?— must feel themselves being poured and pouring through life. We’re not built but become: trembling columns of apprehension that ripple and pass those ripples to and fro with the world that shakes around us— it too is something poured and ceaselessly pouring itself. February shakes the fields and trembles in each yellow willow. • The violin’s back is not veneer— the strummed wood shudders together. Undivided by caution each note is its own first thought. My first thought’s a kind of prayer that I might resonate entire— sometimes it’s such a meager portion shaking a little, as if it ought... Every day, the same desire to push myself through the door that leads to some bright place, brighter than the concert platform, where the whole self echoes together— the outer to the inner pleasure. • Everything runs together— the light smells of spring, the unreasonable brightness of this peg, this sheet, this line tethering linen between sky and mud as if the garden marked a pause in that eternal return whose looping trace is the blood hissing through the ventricles. What gives you life’s the thing that kills.