We were trying to imagine how we might side-step
time’s path, stop moving yet still not be lost
to the world. Not yet. There were so many birds
on that island, and if most of them were black with a glint
they had carried from other, deeper fires.
And if their voices were harsher than language
can sing to make sense, that was nothing to us then.
We didn’t need colors or the smell of the ocean.
We were not yearning for the savor of coffee
or a glass of good wine. We just wanted to live
like trees do, as non-selves; we wanted to hum
like certain rocks seem to, the rocks that inhabit
their own weight, rocks we might build our house with
to dream in. Listen: Sometimes a moment
stands up and walks away, like an elegant woman
might simply walk away from a lover whose body
and inner life don’t match. Watch her. So we wake
and remember the flares we lit with the flint
of our bones and shot at the night-sky: Light
so rare and true it seemed to become
its own small star. And then we saw the constellations.