by Heather McHugh
Things are not
unmoving (or else what
is ing there
for?)
The things once-living
fall on the never-living
all the more movingly for
the eye
that passes over them.
The wind wells up
to spill a trail
of onces off the nevers,
take opaque from eye
to mind, or near it —
every rocking takes some
leaving
to a stonish spirit.
