If With You

i look and you tell me to look and i look
—Laura Walker

Walk so silently that the bottoms of your feet become ears.
—Pauline Oliveros

I.

If I walked with you      on a dimly lit afternoon.
If we descended      a scrub hillside,   the air fine
& dry—      where would the trail lead?
A thousand leaves      lying on the floor—
a thousand      leaves

II.

If we made our way      past lichens & bearded moss.
If what looks like bittersweet hangs    in spangled vines.
A handful of acorns, waxy & wood brown.
On another coast,    acres of shaded farmland—
maples flaming      in autumnal red.

III.

If I followed you      to where the trees thin—
sheep without a shepherd,      no goatherd to be seen,
cracked earth      welt & bone      switchbacks & brittle grass,
bearded heads      bent     to the ground
If they lift not a single head      at our passing.

IV.

If I lay myself    among the bracken fern
beside tangled roots      & understory—
longing    sweat      goatherd

V.

If with you    I find    my way into silence      & back again.

VI.

If with you every leaf      is an instrument—
every oak      a song      If with you I become
the trail itself—      sweat & muscle      dry heat.
If my mind parches—      & my mouth
dirt    dirt      shade me    dry— the sun

VII.

& the land’s uneven      tempo,
oak-laden forest      &   scrubland,
the trail’s      wandering score.

VIII.

If my heart narrows, then circles around.

IX.

If first one leads, then the other—      you, me
then you again—      alternating along the path,
your steady footfall—      & mine, echoed
across chaparral—      a sound    I might
not hear,    if I weren’t already      listening

X.

If we cut across miles of scrub oak      whisked
leaves & surface      forest dim      light filtered
& wide      If we pause to listen—      sound poured
round our head      every leaf & stem, trembling—
If the forest      shook my mind      a mountain wind
falling on trees    crowns billowing in late afternoon.

XI.

hard-packed earth   & dappled light      it sings
sun-bleached grasses      it sings      twining wood-
bine & honeysuckle      it sings      underbrush
& speckled leaf—      shall dance    & sing

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This pastoral sequence derives much of its form and language from Forrest Gander’s Twice Alive, Sappho’s If Not, Winter (trans. Anne Carson), the book of Psalms and Laura Walker’s psalmbook, Obi Kaufmann’s The California Field Atlas, Christopher Marlowe and Sir Walter Raleigh, and, of course, the coast live oak scrublands of Northern California.

Wave Organ II

& seated by a window  at first  she might  keep the feeling  at bay
maybe  take a breath or two  & staring at the glass   the ocean’s
vast flattening  & release   in the corner of her mind  a little tug
not a self  she can look   in the eye   body blurring  in  & out  of focus
though  in the presence  of this little one   she might feel  her own
frequency  slow  to a steady whoosh   & the little one  sensing this  shift
might draw nearer  & they might find themselves entering  into phase
all around them  the feeling  of a great heart  beating   or she might
be out walking with a friend  who might turn to her  & say describe that
sadness   a sudden flush rising  behind the eyes  or under the skin
a bruised color  surfaced in the face of the lake  lifting & lapping
gravelly shore    a lake is not  an ocean  she might think to herself
but a body  surrounded on all sides     with this new safety a person
could navigate this  glittery self-contained life  & never  drown

under     the skin
that bruised color
surfacing

describe that     sadness

she     might say
a tenderness
rising

behind the    eyes

 
body     blurring in
and out o f focus

two selves     rhythms
beating
against
each other

a great    heart
pulsing

around them        like the sea

Wave Organ V

& later    making her way along the harbor    around cement blocks    bits    of broken masonry
strewn across the jetty    she might sit    with a hand to her forehead    shielding herself from
the sun’s glare    as it reflects    the ocean’s brilliance    its foamy spray    catching    & releasing
the children    playing along the water’s edge    it could swallow them at any second    she might
think to herself    watching their lithe bodies tumble    in   & out of the surf    but no day is
without its movement    she might say to herself    reaching down    to brush    the sand from her
ankles    stopping to press her ear against the pipe    angled    into the ocean    like a periscope
listening to its open-mouthed whoosh    she might hear something    of the body’s origins
its rhythmic thunks & gurgles    the tide going out & coming back    empty masts of sailboats
bobbing along the dock    & the sky’s limitless blue    & in the distance    the lighthouse    in its
immovable clarity    keeping watch over all aspects    of the sea    an unlit eye staring    in six
directions at once    & the murmur of waves in the air    the pull of some immeasurable depth
drawing her    into the restless    element of her    own interior    its lively    & perpetual    music

at the water’s     edge
sea
the sky
the waves

its     foamy     white     spray

pulling her

deeper
in     her
infinitude
a restless blue     that

spreads     and spreads

the sea’s     steady music
rocking her
from     within

O
sea

resonant
its      music
surge and return

tide
going out     empty
and     coming back
whole