and in between light and dark is small
it explodes upon the rest of a gaze
to find in oneself that very space
to allow it to unfold into the umpteenth dimension
and in its edges and corners, flowers blossom
speaking a language all can hear but only the wind listens
the rush of the world. all at once,
the soft bake of the sun
the snow melts
water rushing between the trees
pollen on the glass
up above, birdsong.
A man awakes stuck in sticky morning to the sound of a tokay gecko
clinging to the wicker wall above. Through the mosquito net the gecko appears
Sketched onto parchment, all messy and smudged, and the man reaches
up but cannot reach and blinks and it is gone.
He opens his mouth to breathe the Sumatran air
tasting salty like sweat oozing thick like honey
in between the man’s teeth, around his tongue.
His cheeks are so filled with it he expects to choke but does not.
His thoughts skip as stones on a lake without ripples,
clenched anchors clutch the bunched damp sheets.
He fears a wind will soon lift him away yet the air is quiet and still.
In that silence the fear becomes an acceptance and the acceptance a longing.
Next to him lies a silhouette of sweat, of raindrops on paper.
A whisper of someone he once might have known, known completely
without hesitation and without doubt and without fear or restraint.
As the sweat dries beside him the silhouette fades.
He has forgotten why the moon pulls at the ocean tides
or why the stars scream bright only to be swallowed by the yellowing blue of the sun
or why he wakes in the morning or falls to sleep at night.
He knows only that they do and that he does and there is no coincidence in that.
It’s not as if the silence frightens me
with its quiet pregnancies,
with its memories of sun-stained mornings,
its heavy snowy regrets.
No, it’s not as if the silence frightens me
Sometimes when the air is still
I remember the wind,
the crinkle of it between leaves,
the high whisper of it in my ears.
Then the white door slams shut
all on its own
I envy the bees that dive and float,
hovering still and now darting away
It’s like they’ve managed to solve
how to hold in their tiny minds both
purpose and contentment