There was busy air there, air
seething through the leaves so,
from farther up, the tree-line shone
like a single scintillating polyhedron.
Still, though ravens and wrens flaked off the top,
the woods held, solid as a mall
or a rally or a lake — really anything
at all when seen from a ways. But
we'd waded through those branches, scraped
on brambles, toed stumps; seen
rot and bits of bone and a blue broken egg.
So while we squatted on a scaly boulder,
and a jet stream's cremains cleaved
the sky in two, I saw I'm also smattered
shards, steady from afar, some parts
me and some parts room.
Surkan, Neil. “On High.” On High. Montreal: MQUP, 2018. Print