A dusk begins and we return to it.
A sea becomes the question and answers itself.
To be held in a steady gaze and then become roots.
To forget for a time.

The sun sulfated, its steady pulse
playing along the fingers of our garments.
A button. A sock. A voice
and no voice looming from it.

To watch autumn’s brown origami.
The cat’s ribs clinging to its skin.
Flocks of scissors racing along a coast.
I am sorry for the severed drift of the sea.

To answer was impossible.
To acquaint oneself with lighthouses, griefs.
To as a child divide each thing in its openness.
A steep breathed braying. A boot’s roily gills.
To grow sick with smoothness. To be born
an incalculable number. To count to yourself in stones.