Full Fathom

& sea swell, hiss of   incomprehensible flat: distance: blue long-fingered ocean and its nothing else: nothing in the above visible except water: water and always the white self-destroying bloom of   wavebreak &, upclose roil, & here, on what’s left of   land, ticking of   stays against empty flagpoles, low tide, free day, nothing being memorialized here today — memories float, yes, over the place but not memories any of   us now among the living possess — open your hands — let go the scrap metal with the laughter — let go the upstairs neighbor you did not protect — they took him away — let go how frightened you knew he was all along while you went on with your day — your day overflowing with time and place — they came and got him — there are manners for every kind of event — he stopped reading and looked up when they came in — didn’t anyone tell you you would never feel at home — that there is a form of   slavery in everything — and when was it in   your admittedly short life you were permitted to believe that this lasted forever — remove   your   hands from your pockets — take out that laundry list, that receipt for everything you pawned last night — decide whom to blame — stick to your story — exclude expectation of   heavenly reward — exclude the milk of human kindness — poisoned from the start — yes — who ever expected that to be the mistake — with all the murderers and miracle workers — with the hovering spidery fairy tales — kites, angels, missiles, evening papers, yellow stars — clouds — those were houses that are his eyes — those were lives that are his eyes — those are families, those are privacies, those are details — those are reparation agreements, summary judgments, those are multiplications on the face of   the earth that are — those are the forests, the coal seams, the carbon sinks that are his — as they turn into carbon sources — his — and the festering wounds that are — and the granary that burned — and the quick blow administered to make it painless, so- called — his eyes his   yes   his blows his seed’s first insertion into this our only soil — &   the flower, the cut flower in my bouquet here, made from the walk we took this morning, aimless, as if   free, where you asked me to marry you, &   the loaf   of barley, millet and wheat I was able, as a matter of course, to bring to the table, fresh- baked, in life.