The silent song of matter
rising through the walls
of my morning room
like sap up the birches;
circling the tone
of shining saw blades of steel
through floor and ceiling,
raise the threat of immanence;
of time at its utmost,
vibrating through my hiking boots,
up my skeleton,
as I tread the Nevada Test Site
in Rebecca Solnit's Savage Dreams
in an upstairs room in a house
stubbornly holding its ground
near the Polar Circle
in Swedish Northbothnia;
brandishing thoughts
barely held at bay
through archived years pressing me ahead
like timber down the Råne River of old,
black and white visions
of a 1920's gang of timber markers
photogenically positioned
up an ice-age tower of rocks
at Hat Mountain
in the blazing sideways sunlight
of a midsummer midnight
of rambunctious determination
of a hundred years ago,
stirring my sense
of happy loss
at each minute's, every hour's
transition
from now to now through now
until all thoughts fan out
and disperse
in a thoughtless glare
of nothing in particular,
on a backdrop of one million reindeer bells
while our graves are trespassing in this life