Things fall, ebb
descend or dissipate
The land ends where the glass web
Rises like a prayer
And what is
Is repeated on the balcony, the stairs, in gleaming cars
In the spaces between windows
We hang mirrors
We smile, shift our weight and lift our shirts
We drift between two parallel realities
In the morning dressing for the evening
Walking with our teeth out
Look at us
Delicately upright
Our organs exposed
Our throats like another face
We use the bed
Instead of sleeping in it
We tell each other, “When I die I don’t care
What happens to my body”
As though we were boats of air
Until little by little
We are encroached upon by shadows
The echoing voices of ominous
Upper equipment
Until our responsibilities have been reduced
Or moderated like an invalid’s
We sit upright inside
The great room full of wind
Watching the birds and ants and golden bees
Swarming right up to the sleeve of death
It is natural to love what is impossible
It is natural to say what is and mean
What is impossible
It is natural to want to call
The air
Between your fingers nothing
It is a wonder that we ever see
The pattern is what is assembled
When you aren’t paying attention
And it is still called inconsistency
Even if it happens constantly


Marshall Walker Lee lives in Oregon. His favorite tree is the mighty American Paper Birch. (He also co-edits Poor Claudia.)