RETROCAUSALITY

I am a witness, counting the rings. Fifty
degrees too cold for sea-
swimming & yet: salt 
clinging to follicles, hairspray, mist 
hanging over the cul-de-sac 
like a threat. I am a witness 

& the deer know it. The scuttling 
wood roaches know it. Perhaps 
the whole empty belly of the off-season
resort knows it. Look 
here at the Cladoniaceae—moss
carpet, dendrite spindle. Whispering 

come lie in this bed of decay, dear.
Close your eyes, lay down the burden 
of seeing. I hover the maps 
of my palms over electric air. Crackle 
between the lines: head, heart, life. The illusion
of impermeability. As if I am

a witness, & not 
counted in the endless
spiral of rings.