This Is Where You’ll Find Me
A shoreless island, leaves rustled
by moonlight. A quilted table set,
perhaps, for two. Tempered words
where my bones are not invisible—
this is where I am.
A loose-leaf manuscript; a flush
drawer, no handle. A jagged thought
discovered, then recovered. Truer notes
played from my rooted, airy reeds—
this is where I wait.
Where the pebble echoes the mountain,
where hunger is scribbled in eddies,
where my days pass at the speed of time
—this is where you’ll find me;
this is what is there.
• • •