Geoffrey Brock
for G.C. Waldrep and for Ellen Wiener
Not simply the rooted tilting toward of a face,
which must content itself with at best a basking
in the warm glare of, at worst a gauze-dimmed gaze,
but a motile chasing after, a leaving behind
of places one has been and known—a father's
familiar faith, a marriage, a community;
a selling rather than a buying of the farm
and a move toward glinting fields of uncertainty
whose abstract constellations we figure from afar
that we might reckon a way through darkness by them;
a shifting of one's own register, as if one could,
by aligning oneself with the rays of, harmonize
with their high source. Such repeated gestures
(think of the constant clench and slack of oysters
or the heart's own religious yoga) help
the shells we dwell in hone their earthly postures.