Mornings, the scattered drift shines
like jawbones. Amassed in piles,
cold seaweed cinches into place. Clear
shells filling with fog--
first the round ones, then the spirals.
Beneath the waves, gray whales itch
with sea lice.
So absence is compelled
by premonition. Fog pouring
into firs until the forest is erased.
Your own hand subtracted.
Even the bogs sublimate: studded
as they are with sundews,
carnivorous plants with sticky
ends collecting light--
Their appetites glitter. Then
the whiteness consumes them.
Like a candle held for a moment
between mirrors, your body
senses what has come before, what
remains.
And so, the last jar's filled with its final
shard of quartz. Pages of the field notebook
decant the living sap of trees. Even the white
gold ring on your finger
burns with the memory of supernova.
--Katherine Larson
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