Rock Harbor by Carl Phillips Page A

lush
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â failure—
    Even now, shall I choose? Do I
    get to?
    Dearest-once-to-me
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Dearest-still-to-me
    Have I chosen
    already,
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â or is choice a thing
    hovering yet, an
    intention therefore, from
    which, though
    late, could I hurry back?
    What am I going to do with you— or
    how?
    Whom for?
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â If stay my hand—where
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â rest it?

THE DEPOSITION
    Whether it more was like
    the ocean,
    or more
    those plates in the earth that
    shift abruptly according to
    laws that, even if I
    give to them here
    no name, apply
    nevertheless outside, in
    spite of—
    I forget,
    as so many somewhere always have
    just said. Exaggeration,
    to say I never thought
    I’d lie among them; more exactly: I
    had not hoped to. How
    brief, comparatively
    at least, that
    feathered phase—
    less Roman,
    more Greek, more
    birch than
    ash, none of shame’s
    nobility attached, but—
    worse—the embarrassing
    thud of blunder, to
    ever have laid
    the blue-to-black,
    black,
    then blue
    familiar of self full-length
    and down, ringside, as if there’d been
    a ring, or as if by
    long traveling at last done
    in, as who would
    not be? I
    had not guessed it.
    As when to find a stone
    is to find revealed
    no truth unless the truth
    of stones, which
    is to say the fact of
    themselves only. Or
    as when the song
    of wanting is understood as
    not at all the song of
    being wanted,
    not like thirst,
    not like hunger,
    not the disappointment
    of only the one leaf gone
    vermilion inside of
    the tree’s saffron majority,
    not a godlessness in
    the wake of a habit of prayer, neither
    that sort of wind, nor a tunnel, or through one, it
    was not like that.

TWO

BY HARD STAGES
    All the glories—
    ribbed, and
    separate,
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â collective
    sway-in-the-wind.
    Shut them.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â To have wanted
    more, where has that
    carried me,
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â if what
    so much matters
    now can be proven
    later to all
    along have been doomed
    not to?
    Â Â Â Â Â Â â€¢
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â The governing
    drift was from
    sensation to
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â distraction to
    irrelevance: “they came
    to nothing,” it says here,
    â€œen route
    settling for things like
    heat falling mostly
    against, light mainly
    falling, between them
    a bush or
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â a skull
    shimmering like another
    example of absence of
    will—with
    heat only,
    shivering—”
    Â Â Â Â Â Â â€¢
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Do I make
    a difference? or
    What is it
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â so persuades, I
    must make one?
    The text breaks like a road
    forking where none
    warned of …
    Look at yourself,
    Look at you.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Have I not
    looked there—
    possibility for
    â€”into it?
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â How small,
    Â Â Â Â Â Â â€¢
    without effort almost,
    can be the leap from
    it-is-findable to
    we-have-found-it.
    Though not water,
    not the flash, even,
    as if off of that which
    could be water, could
    also not