Sometimes I see it as a straight line
drawn with a pencil and ruler
transecting the circle of the world


or as a finger piercing
a smoke-ring casual, inquisitive,

if it is one thing ,
a large ball of air and memory,
or many things,
a string of small farming towns,
a dark road winding through them .


Let us say it is a field
I have been hoeing everyday ,
hoeing and singing,
then going to sleep in one of its furrows ,


or now that it is more than half over,
a partially open door,
rain dripping from the eaves.


Like yours , it could be anything ,
a nest with one egg,
a hallway that leads to a thousand rooms-



whatever happens to float into view
when I close my eyes
or look out a window
for more than a few minutes,
so that somedays I think
it must be everything and nothing at once.