In Particular

Recognition in the body

moves like a swarm of bees: you know all

over at once. As you find what you really feel

has no language-absently drawn to that wild

stir of insects, a flurry of birds, how

one bone of the earth shows through,

night root tightened within

its ground. In the cold of bathroom

I heard a tick, tick, tick, turned

and stared with the light, thinking

about nothing. But I noticed the fine

grain of sink wood like waves, weaving,

the real bending of trees against

wind, over-how beautiful

it was. I thought

this is what it is like

before sudden disaster:

our other brain, the one which cannot

speak, hears the tick, tick, tick,

turns toward it with the light

and we look-for the first or last

time we look.