The sense of sound

In dusk’s inner lip I watch
a heron watch a fish
whose future will
not — I keep forgetting
the word. The meaning I want
tastes wrong. War planes drown
articulations of heaven.

In search of it, I watch
the bird watch the fish, wait
while a river otter straddles
the shoreline to gnaw sea refuse. I search the web
like the clarity of distant shapes means
nowness I can hold and keep.

I listen for the sound of my own listening
to see whether the noise irritates
the sea surface at regular or irregular intervals.
Forgetting the way out
doesn’t mean it disappears.
We are one conjunction away
from a chainlink was.

At the end of everything
that came before,
I stand alone in the kitchen taking
excoriation orders from an orange.
A gnat, tiny tank, stands vigilant
to scent. I said alone but I meant
here. Now
when I say yes
the gnat takes flight.