And then it wasn’t just plastic / at Gore Point in the Antarctic (population: 0) / but at thirty thousand feet above / the Pyrenees (population: birds) / and in the lungs of every living / lunged creature. . . .
When your phone dies, when the map’s legend goes missing, / peer into the gopher’s abandoned burrow. Or search for me / in margins between assigned reading and page edge. . . .
Night screech—Startle, the heart-race after a human / scream. Then silence and only suspicion of / a crime. Perhaps a rabbit has flown off with an owl.
As in writing, as in memory, as in shelter, as in / delineations of form, say, the living // walls of a sod house, the corporeal, the body of, / (you) begin with. . . .