It’s a re-tracing of steps

a familiar process

of repetition and variation:

a drive east on the 90

but this time there is

mist on the windshield

some seeps through the crack

between wiper and glass

some evaporates

before it hits my eyelids.

Clouds slow and heavy

I follow—or maybe

intersect with them—

dripping in saturation,

perennially a background

for the iterations, the static

of a wren’s absence

above the condensation.

I would follow it—

the missing piece—

because my edges

are no longer distinct

from their surroundings.

This time the clouds

and water land

using their subtle forms

of integration.

And it’s a different game, now

less exact, an ungraceful

disappearance of the most

important words

I said.