[Untitled]

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[Untitled]


What we have here this morning,

a bright thumb once again opening


the hardback of horizon, is a complex 

text, the knotted kind with a pine-


scented secret that will not bare

its breast to any quick cut. 


This is the lover who wants to be 

wanted, who wants to see you


sweat for it, the puzzle that solves you 

as you tear up the house in long afternoons


looking for the missing piece. “My piece

I leave with you” we were told once


as the box closed, felt the cool weight

of a Rosetta Stone pressed into our palms;


it was so flat we couldn't resist and skipped it

across the water. The miracle is not


an answer or a clear bridge to the other side

but how the ripples will not disappear, 


how the stars refuse to quit dancing

on the surface of our diminishment,


the light bubbling and babbled

but buoyant, not yet lost in translation.


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