the wind let up and we got back in. i cleared a bunch of rubble 
and made a freshwater tidepool, 
then i lay down behind a shallow limestone wall.  
i finished kalven's book with relief. it's a sad ordeal 
ending in a tender qualified darkness. it was an obsession 
while it lasted and now it rejoins the warp and weave 
of myriad trauma personal and environmental, 
flora, fauna and species trauma that sadly animate 
my tired noggin today. i grieved with the book, though it now rests 
in the past. it's still restless, still wants reading, 
and connects with the present lived book i spect.  
i wished for a sequel, but it was probably finished there, 
a place to put everything that could have curtailed in silence.
and i was tired of it, as probably he was.  
i move on to the quarry fox, and other critters. 
she talks about being a naturalist amazed by bluestone, 
the bottom of the ancient sea formed by streams 
from the acadian mountains. sea receded and left 
bluestone mountains, which became my dad's old house 
for a time til his second marriage doomed. 
nick cave talks of narrative disintegrating, fracturing, maybe eroding, 
like old mountains, maybe lopped off these days, blasted, 
and kalven talks of the need for narrative that won't really come, 
just an accretion of particle days, etc, etc.  
erosion has been happening for ages, 
but it's so head-spinning now, man-made. 
and trauma, the natural kind has been turbo-charged, 
the chaos a sick deliberation, etc. etc.  
i said how i wanted to disappear as a kid, and that lasted, 
but the gist of reading the specific traumas of fellow 
creatures makes me long to appear.  
when i see how we can so easily be disappeared. 
i feel the strange need to apologize, and the stranger pride to blab on.