And we are filled with a fog-like discontent.
And we are unsure of even the personal value of our observations.
It’s as if we’re asking one another to sleep in small beds built for children.
It’s as if by walking we’re disfiguring those underground.
Being present at the initial event was deemed unsafe in October 2000.
Being present was like holding sparklers that wouldn’t go out.
When we lost Gold River, the trees became metaphysical and our brains wooden.
When we forgot our families’ faces, we became more lovely at sunset like a toxic cloud.
Dogs were everywhere, sniffing and tracking, and a wonderful thing happened.
Dogs were nudging us to get up, it was wet, we looked down, and a thing happened.
Afterward, new role models better demonstrated not knowing those we love.
Afterward, with needles, we made our symbiosis more frankly biological.
Once again our former home is preserved inside the mountain on which we’ve awakened.
Once again each speck of dirt is a frontier.
What will be tossed down the well?
What will be the first words of the covenant because that’s all we’ll remember?
The dead and the living hang from each moment like bats.
The dead and the living are a pattern that can be hummed.
Now even I am being held in someone’s arms and it turns out the river is a type of bone.
Now even the dead, when seen from close enough, turn out to be moving.