No privacy in the north of me,
the place where ice piles up:
no room for anonymity
and altogether too cramped
for distance of the social kind.
Between the squalor
of my love and intruders
emplaced, how again
and over again
I’ve lost my way, ignorant
of the names of places.
A shame to ask anyone
to guide me: too far gone
for communion, kinship,
commemoration.
A valley
in which I forget
currents of air as they course
between slopes.
A stack of stones uneven
nothing more than the mind
fixing customs from origins.
For instance,
I will become human
through a series of transformations
rather than a processional line.
Merestones, my one:
let us name them together.