Under the gas pumps, and charging
stations, Dollar General, the mail
room at the post office, under traffic
lights, crab grass, vacant lots, flower shops,
a terrible potential, like the piano’s lowest note, struck,
amplified and groaning, searching our waste inundated world,
saturated with scales—armored eyes,
numb to a degree, of what to call it,
how to identify, number or quantify, like lark’s feathers
tossed into the hurricane, or a boat
captain who mistakes the pier, more precise to say
does not see it in the dark, crests the concrete and crashes
there, beached, the barrier broached, vessel
immobilized yet witness to infinite points of light
which a single dayfilled atmosphere obliterates. The built environment’s
multitudes and the wildfire’s random mercies:
what’s spares, what causes
red giant, black hole, big bang.