The Whole Damn Works up There

These lines wove a mat, a raft,
That then broke off in the waves

To float free from a large world,
A rich world of far more lives

Than you see here in one place.
Not a life-boat or space-ship,

Not an ark with well picked-out
Pairs and clear culls to catch all

The full range from home writ small,
This mat is wrack, like the trash

Ring that spins waste in the sea,
Like the spray of weeds torn off

From the coast by a great storm
And mixed with what washed down streams

And what the tides brought back up.
It’s a mess, but it floats free.

Should it reach a plug of stone
Kicked up from the core, half-cooled,

It might wash up on that shore
And hold fast, a torn, green glop

Of words and minds, some of which
Could crawl off and find new life,

Birth new lines, new kinds. That spit
Of raw land could have its own,

One day—things that came to be
Right there on the once bare stones.