As island off the edge of a continent. As island off the edge of islands. An island is always sinking somewhere. All of the sunken islands fold in a long braid in any direction. Where north ends, where south opens, where east breaks from a peninsula, where west punctures the view with sunset, a poet gathers all the living things plus their shadows and how they fail. The poet fills boats upon boats with what remains and offers them the sea. Perfection is no prerequisite for revolution, or inscription for that matter. Inscribed things need language, need the hard tuning of what living arches into dust. Even in history, what else is there but wonder.
You know you can bring this devastation into your own house if you have a house or else you walk with it everywhere, wherever home is available to you. It is gradual unlike endpoints, unlike motion sickness. Even when your repose exists only as psychic location or euphoric meditation, and you house your wisdoms in a tent in a city park, our troglodytic leaders make laws against any measure you use to reach for rest. In any case, everyone you know is exposed. Some more than others. That is the impossible measure we know.