Do they make their own light? I think they are like the sunset, backlit. I look at them and I can see tomorrow, somehow, I can see everything that could ever be. I look at them and somewhere, a man guides a skiff up a river, the wind blows, leaves scatter. It’s quiet, and restless, all at once. Time is passing for all children, new beings are being conceived and tossed into the narrows of time, the centrifuge of the seasons, we are all tumbled together, new beings are tossed in like bright red and yellow balls into a lottery cage. Somewhere it is always morning as the dawn sweeps from east to west, over the brick buildings of the atlantic shores and towards the plains, dawn is always coming across the grass, the grass that bends, the grass that harbors insects whose lives are like the red sparks from a bonfire, forever and ever being born, and burning, and going out. And the dawn washes west, all the way to the brooding pacific seas, where blackened cold waves beat pillars of rock and water sucks the sand, awoosh! Awoosh! Forever and ever, and the dawn passes over, unknowing. And what is time? And the drama of the clouds! Which is not seen, but goes on living, and beats the ground with moisture, and slices up the light, and cloaks the dawn in thickness.
And what is time? Do you hold time behind your eyes? It is not everyone’s eyes, in which time can be seen, stacked up on itself like grains of sand balanced on the head of a pin. Everything at once. Everything at once! Two single circular irises, blue like the summer seas, calm, and infinite.
And your hands! Your square freckled hands. Your hands and my body sing together, they link arms and sing a simple lilting rhyme, steady like the pounding surf and just as old, and no-one knows who taught it to them, or where they remember it from, and yet they know it, the way children know playground rhymes about English plagues and unrequited love, and they skip, arm in arm, singing soft secrets to each other, and it comes from nowhere, it comes from way back, like the elm tree in the street, and the way the light through the branches makes patterns on the ground, and happens anyway, like spring.
Love, the wind blows too hard, and the power is sputtering, and the lamp flickers off and on. The wind blows too hard! I want to open myself to this winter wind, I want it to howl through the cavities of my ribcage. What secrets does it carry? What urgent message? I want to read it the way I try to read your eyes in the light from the cluster of votives on my nightstand, small hot candles in bits of tin. I turn away from you to light them, I flick the lighter again and again, and fish their wicks from the clear wax. I can feel your hand running up my thigh, and this is why I cannot speak- don’t you know that we’re already talking, don’t you know that you have an encyclopedia in your eyes? We talk so much my voice is hoarse from the silence. I am used up, depleted. I only want to lie in your arms and hear your hands singing. I only want to float on the ocean and dream.