From Fog on the Winter Garden

The smallest sprout attests there is no death
But that is not enough.
Be cannot be
finale of seem
when every sprout is a sign
and even the air that stings and moans
and even the nothing itself must be expressed
as it were
in being.

Nothing is never enough

the flowering April
the January wind
the winter fog that rises over the restive seeds
and hangs in the air

but still

it does remind us of things

reminds us of the icy ocean
we used to say invited us
to test our mettle past the ankles
the tingling thighs, past
the genitals and hips,
that set us high on our toes
as we inched our stomachs and chests all the way in
to our necks, skin itching with cold—and yet—
the plunge.

Blue lipped in the middle of summer
trembling on the beach
we were cold—a long time
but it was not enough
to stop us and the sun
was not enough
by the time we were almost warm
to keep us safely
on the sand. We ran
as though beckoned
and we abandoned ourselves
again and again as we always do
to the outlandish allure of things.