What could we know

of the hidden, that gleam
constellations away, without
any known name for it here?
And what could we know
of the answer that arrives
as faint echo, lighthouse
beam cutting through fog
in some millennium where we
might still after all be
mortal, shipwrecked, if not
for what love deposited
in these bones?

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

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