What map unrolls at the touch of water,
or when a shadow crosses the street

ahead of its owner? Be careful
not to pluck a flower from the hedge,

not to put a stone in your pocket
just because it gleams like gold

in a tooth. The birds bring news
of the loneliness of angels.

Did you think they have no history,
no longing comparable to yours?

Fingers press up against the glass
to meet your own. Their weight

is barely noticeable, an eyelash
smudge left on the surface.

Time takes the harp of the moon away:
brings back islands, unfinished bridges.


In response to Via Negativa: Introspectator.

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