you come to.
the miracle of expression
come through the light on the water.
It is durational signal, is current
in the pipes                  a substance
                                     boiling in iron

There is a moment in time
a whole damn gallon  
awash in ritual             like
bad radio & fucked outside
sweetly     wood reft of understory
by dirt bikes & hill runs    
     the sequence of morning
coming in
                                    like a fanfare                   

                                    like a title spelled out
                                    & the sun’s

                                    bright clip


O coolheaded,   O briarcloaked       it was
always already a ruin everywhere endless,
crossed out & over.      feral nest.
      pallor of trash. flood. fire. smoke.
That shift whistle’s minor third
bent to major.      a people in their testimony—
baptist gasbag.   warmonger.  cheapo salesguy.
gnathonical footdragger hunched & jasperizing
            they cruise the same univers
            you’re alive in
ass-blank, green-as-hell, but never waver.
In their gas their bread their grocery
     tires eggs  bottles  keys rags
a glimpse of some indefinite portion
         the consistent hypnotism of form
bewitches & stirs
prior to its being apprehended


But the ones who in the
pleat, among the others
        take some measure
touched up by a voltage

slowly they put their own inflection in

to begin to clear air       to receive a portion

certain their song reached the ears of

messengers, welfarists, derivatives, stainers

those of us roused to joining


Within the tic of subjecthood something
like a buzzing or an open wound I guess.
There is no set no level path no plinth nor one
door you can get in at, not even a fragment
fundamental to its making
          & so the blood does hiss,
run constricted
in the vein


Still that which is pleasing without interest
colorably shows in motive’s mixture
even shorn of all symbolic weight

Where there is man is country.           that remains.
            Back there in that grass some
fat still rankles the blade. a door slams. a car starts.

I know the water’s there because I hear it
                dream the empty house beside it
right into real condition.

back screen door       separating into parts 

            the low light,
showy green—little emerald moth
who sweetens it


            Then a farther place
sensing wood-edge as
margins in that dark
moving swiftly   farther out
                  very, very far now I
obtained an even drone of crickets
the call of frogs as night came—

                        2 phased sets of nested arcs
                        to 3 parts phatic grunt

a modal sense—which falls away

the river hides the rain                

C. Violet Eaton is the author of two full-length collections of poetry: Quartet (Ahsahta, 2018) and Some Habits (Omnidawn, 2015). He currently lives in the Southern Tier region of New York State.