Unmoored in a watermark—
dead ocean this country
depends upon—who can tell what
survives? Not this
jet-scratched sky. Not this
last puff
set into the pine shafts. What dark
comes over us, like sugared water?
What motor surging?
What moon plank?
Waterless wind makes its own song—
tidy, temporal.
Unmoored in dust—even the dust
a telling country. No,
it shifts, way to know.
And so, go to the river.
Trust me. I’ll name the first star
forgiveness.