As if first inscriptions were enough, slate-riven water
I plunged my face
in. I thought I’d drown. What survival conceals itself
in tunnels, what contingencies linger
underground. As shift
of weight from toe to fist to hand makes settling
simple. I hunker down, undying. Pacific mood. Passel
of fishes: no
relation to this land’s language. No way to cram
the right word in. I’ve tried. Surely exhaustion will
hover, rot whittle
supple banks of trees. No use imputing emotion—
news will arrive, tantrum, eventually collapse. Tear
in blotted signatures,
perilous, weeping descent. Letters still unwritten
haunt me. I assemble them, impatient, hear replies
clearer than before. Squall-
breath festering, not to bury. What worth accrues to
mud except silence, except silence turns the mad
words gold. No ruler
able to mutter answers. Quaking, the village green.