Twice the raccoon attempts its nest,

her scaffolding slides away on a kind wind,

before gathering back into the rock’s hollow

shared with skunks and rivulets.

I am finally permanent and still

water refuses to keep my image. Suppose

my planetary wanderings do not subside. Suppose,

in this rigidity, this paltry wish for gardens

to die and come back different, suppose, Lord,

sick with boredom, that quality I’ve come to recognize

as singular, you finally decide motion lends

a certain excitement to water yet to form a canyon.

And having spoken, your fingers compass the quiet

world and wait for the sputter of change

on the other side of your hands. It’s as if

there never was a voice spurring

change through will, willing the multiplicity

of Animalia, of pollen to lie down in earth.

Nick Visconti

Nick Visconti is a writer living in Brooklyn with an artist, and a cat.

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