When we helix in the dark I pray for a time and place our bodies haven't lived yet— spackled with moonlight or slick with humid rain, threading through alleys glowing from the undulation of single light bulbs in every home's kitchen. Or: sidecar and tricycle, pedalling over bluegreen cobblestones, promising the sea around every next corner. In fields loud with green growth, animals step into view. They won't wait until we aren't looking. They won't hide their meaning. In that world they'll eat what they want from every garden. They'll let us lie down in thickets of bamboo— when wind passes through their hollow throats, they might remind us of the sadness in that dying other world; or they might stir more quietly, the way things do before vanishing.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.