This is only the thin finger
of briefest night in northern
summer. Is there a quieter
space than a precarious
sense of ending? The organ
stop replicates a galloping
of voices. Patience is another
word for separation. Dredged
from the sea, skeletal remains
become chalk every day.
From jet lag, from all-sky, my mind is baled
and back to this: I’m filled with awe.
Time-travel is following glow-tape trails
down the stairwell, a fingernail flush
against a ribbon or tendon.
But I can’t feel my own beating heart,
even with both hands on it.
Hanging off the high dive, I re-encounter
each assembling whisper. When the moon
sinks below sea level, I know the veiled
code of mineshaft, how to hijack the jukebox
and repeat, repeat. Teach me to forget I’m lost here.