(only) memory
By Mark DeCarteret

aligned in a way
where you hear
everything—
the rock expelling
my eye
& most the sky
the same dirt
referring to me
as its brethren
it’s strange now
to think of the blood
and the plotting
of insects
how we hum to
ourselves
in the midst
of my father
who thinks that
they might want
to see
what I looked like
what their son
had done
how later we
will be awoken
by a sun of sorts
their dog moving
out of the distance
in a way we can’t
tell it from any
thing else