In the future,
fewer people
in my life,
more in the world,
more strangers.
Just as well.
Who would abide
days spent alone
with sight and sound,
the odd word,
My long work
explaining my work,
my way
of proceeding,
my careen,
The empty road,
the warped-board
stable shedding rain
into the cockleburs?
Oh, little!
Anchored
in these hills,
the weather and
the stars pass through
again and again.
Such inertia
looks a lot like
trance.
"Is" with its
orbital rings.
–– A cento made up of lines from the poems of Rae Armantrout
in the collection "Wobble," woven with the notes
they inspired written in the margins.
