Nothing Particularly Local Going On
by Tyler Flynn Dorholt
We are losing the presence of what is unless in its disappearing we can
unname that which slips a fog down into
Power because after naming the fog it left my sign and is leaving
finally the dusk.
I render tenderly the fog an absence, lean a hollow out.
That the fog saw the singular end of the lake and took to the concept of the field—that house to home
going—where I alone know and in
a move mean to grow into a stance that keeps expanse intact.
The fog being the lack of what the lake would say to a train that passes, passes out in place in place
Each turn the fog takes interrupts itself because I hold it whole.
That on the lake I moved the trees from sight into thought and out.
How I will manage to reappear in what I speak from after I dock this boat, flush this fog.
How this possesses me in my having possessed it.
In speaking I end contours, close selves—home-know—where I am prone to go and from a stance
leave: leave a lasting low glow from
the small lift a height enlightens: the expanse, it slows.
We are loosening the essence of what is unless, in its disappearing, we have a way of rounding back,
back to that which is grounded,
a name claimed as to call again.
When I moved the trees it was because they were distressed by the obscurity of their leavings.
Fog picked up in a pitch and from a breeze familiarized before the seize.
In not moving the trees how their leavings would have parched the object, signaled the end.
The faculty of leaving, how I break it off, what this boat takes in that an only;
secondly, how to echo a hollow, strip a branch before shape is had.
We are losing the presence of what is unless, in its disappearing, fog destroys itself as soon as I see—
latchkey—where I am lake-zoned
and in a row about the space, in place, of knowing out, quite in.
Possibility—to presence—I pose for you an essence.
Each wave a lake from I am move unto.
But I needed the fog gone, the trees aside and the leavings let be.
Motor done and boat docked I walk a dock-top in a toe-tap through the fog-gone.
I find dusk down in the thought out thus a presence in.
I moved the trees I took the fog.
To a nothing name a house from fog in a field does home.
I spoke forward to the thing and there a name coming from my forward came.
In that the train passed where in its absence we placed it in,
in placing in a leaving as a going home
I house a fog alone outside my.
In place of claim a name again.