Towards selection
The second time it became extinct, Capra pyrenaica pyrenaica
lasted seven minutes: a weak-lunged clone
grown in a goat: rotten copy of Celia,
who went the first time under a falling tree.
I don’t know how to have lost what
comes
back, what we should say for the passed
that we repeat
like a word revived to be the name
of a yacht or a drink.
I spent an afternoon coppicing in a small, still wood kept
agitated by roads
with those lovely despairing grey-haired women who
have come on their own
to cut brambles back or walk the course
of dried-up rivers, who feel the other
world falling away, picking needles
from the canal. Who replant,
who still sign petitions,
so otters are common beside farmland again,
some road construction on hold.
They drank elderflower cordial and I left my Sprite unopened
in my bag until
I got home.
The giving and the taking away not a possible
sum. Before the
anthropocene: a mass of
failures, unauthored revisions in search of
uses, but variety
always better than dullness is the best I can keep
caring about deletions
with, and I
do. Same sickly Celias scattered across the crags
mingling with goats seems
less dull than them nowhere
at all.
The women remind the larvae in the bark
of their Latin name
as they chop willow to the base to grow
again, as if
something definite
will live
regardless
of them.
