“What was it
I wanted to tell you?
I forgot. That’s how
everything goes now,
all of the time.”
-Rita Dove, from “Apology, With Interruptions”

                I was having particular trouble with this post. Flipping back through the powerful poems in Solmaz Sharif’s Customs and the interlaced stories of Daniel H. Wilson’s The Clockwork Dynasty, trying to land on a passage. Then going outside to where the jays and a cardinal and another bird I don’t know are landed in a maple tree. Talking. The wind licked by. A rabbit stood still, watching me. I stood still, not watching it. Cloudy sunlight on my bare shoulders. Then I went back inside and listened to a moving truck beep beep beep at my neighbor’s. This morning I checked, and the arugula seeds are sprouting, tiny drops of green like ink dropped upward into air. The leaves opening for a drink of cloudy sunshine. 
                I don’t know what piece of all these intersecting moments and lives I wanted to point to. I don’t know what I wanted to point out. If point out it to bring out a small piece, a certain this, I guess I wanted to—to circle in? Weave in? Web in?
                I let myself forget. Maybe I haven’t yet seen what I’m listening to. Maybe I want to listen until the urge to point fades into winds, chirps, beeps, bare skin, maple branches.