What? You were unaware
Of the conspiracy between the stars
And the tips
Of branches? When you hear the pattern
Does it sound like a hiss of too many whispers?
Those are the years.
Unsettling, isn’t it? That’s just what I was thinking,
Squatting here, for oh, I don’t know how many
Minutes – counting would be obsessive –
I was thinking…
Then I heard your footsteps. I think you’re very
Mixed up to come to this place – what are you seeking,
My child? A vision? Now what would that be of?
It’s dark here. It’s quiet. I like it. Time surges
Through the night like soundless waterfalls, but
This tiny spot on the spreading earth stays stable. When you
Look closely, what appears to be spaces of empty
Gray between the pinpoints are more pinpoints,
Just further away, and the twig tips form a lace
That drinks up the light they make like a sponge.
Over there’s the graveyard, a laid down wall
Of doors in the ground, with spirits pouring through
Like bees into a hive. At this pace
They move through so smoothly
It’s like stroking silk, like the endless stroke
Of a violin. What draws you to this place?
Here, let me get out my little bowl. See,
I can pull one corner like a window and it’s big
As a tub. Go on – climb in. There’s no assurance you’ll
Come out again – no assurance of a thing. Once I’ve pressed
Your head below the surface, look up. You’ll see that the stars
And branches of the trees haven’t changed a bit. The night will
Pass like other nights you’ve known. The sun will come striding
Toward the dark rim of the world arrayed
In a nimbus of red rooster hackles. Wake up, lucky child,