Beneath waving drapes of midnight, these lines
draw us out in the swell where the first caught hook
leaves the longest scar. No, love. You cannot go
back but to the opening or you lose it all to danger
us in this work of finding what the cynic masks
until mourning song against memory’s loss, by
turning heads to the young at the breast to owl
until we catch ourselves on trees. No we are not
birds we must ask for song first also love and
what comes suggests we are light, lighting
the eye back to her first sound and the shine
that preceded too the open mouth that
meant the beginning of you.
