It rises from the North Atlantic’s stacks
as radio silence, a generalized lack
of discursive tone or narrative movement distinguished
by its density. A mob of spirits enacts freedom of assembly
under a Carmelite aegis. Friendly, to a point; but no
rhythm. The fight goes out of us, high beams
make it worse. Our dissent voiced simply in the way
we’re put together, in claims to an ill-defined
sixth sense—clairvoyance, gaydar, sensitivity to the dead
and their unending list of grievances—
staring into the infinite regression of our inabilities.
Everything to the right resembles everything
to the left, GPS prompts ring hollow though we were so close
once. Unimaginable speed behaving like stillness.
A confused dream the land entertains. Lay down
your whatever-you’ve-got-there, don’t need to know what it is
to be sure we don’t like it. We’ve no idea
what we’ve just had a brush with. Unseen
beneath the beaded grass tops, the meadow vole pokes
his nose out, scoots among stems of sedges, forbs.
A bad neighbor. His own kind crowd him. Justice
the predaceous gods of land and sky fail to exact in their satiety
or extinction he will carry out himself,
to keep what’s his. Full of ire, in rage, deaf as the sea,
he scuttles under cover to the sleeping places of his kin.