The speckled wood butterfly guards his spot of light
On the forest floor. He rests in that circle of sun
Like a powdery flower against the earth, sounding
Its fragrances. He flies in a spiral upward
Against usurpers, settles again on everything good
That he can distinguish. I am trying to find
Your name. I am trying to remember.
In the field after dark, everything has a sound,
The damp gathering under the weeds, the shift
Of the comb-footed spider, the edges of the trees
Against the night. I am aware of what moves across the
tops
Of the grasses and keeps on going. I attend to the pauses
Of the grape-skin peepers, the pine crickets. I am trying
To recall your name. I am watching.
The wild wheat, evening-brown and counting, rises
And bends in the ditches by the road. The other side
Of its existence is here in these words. The hair
Of each seed-head, the invisible crack in each sheath,
The wind taking form among the stalks, all have been
here
On this page waiting for themselves from the beginning.
I will put together your name. I am adding.
Reminiscence of barn owls and tit-toms, filaments of
jackanapes
And iris bands, auras of glassed-in candlelight and
unbroken
Spans of snow, the underwater worm slides along the
body
Of the Choctaw reed, feeling its presence. I am
Next to where you are. I will use my fingertips. I will use
My belly. I will study long enough to remember your
name.
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