An ox makes a place to sleep in the straw.
Winter stretches its ice blanket over the barn.
A killer whale pulls one end northward towards Kigiktaq.
Morning, before sunrise, gulls where there were only blue sticks.
The sea makes a heaving shudder, lifting a rogue wave to look around.
The river ebbs, exposing the bones of an old hunter. Observant. Revenant.
A few stones shine like old moons.
Chained together by ambition,
we raced towards two-bladed freedom.
How we raved and sang to the sea of stars!
We were living on the edge of a cliff
and saw only infinite rows of tungsten street lights.
But now! Look over there.
Now I see how trees see the world.
Trees see the world as a field of light
to be harvested and turned into wooden soldiers
surrounding the pale with love.
It is as if the shaman’s world
switched places with ours.
When did that happen?
We left the prison hidden in a food service truck
and now Gabriel has blown his trumpet
and Gehenna has become Eden.
It looks the same and completely different.
We may be dead by tonight
but what have we ever lost by dying?
Space and Time. The words were invented before we knew what they really meant. In fact, space and time are joined like a two headed calf.
Space time? It is not a term invented by a poet. ( Why no poets in space?) We need another term to capture this elephant with the neck of giraffe and the laugh of a hyena.
The realm of light speed is where nature hikes up her skirts and says go ahead, take a look but you still won’t believe it. Elastic clocks slow down, drooping like Dali’s clocks under the burden of trying to catch the tiger. Thought, heart beats, a child’s first words, everything as in a viscous fluid. The stranger you eventually marry takes much longer to share her secrets.
Racing up the hill towards the speed of light, light itself refuses to slow down! It keeps arriving at the same damn speed! Nature throws up her hands and says, ok fine you win and slows the clocks to balance the celestial books. So nothing seems different as you congeal in place like the happy, ever young fossil you are, tucked away in your lithic layer of drip, drip dripping light time. This is the kind of bedrock-deep weirdness that makes poets and anyone with a sense of humor happy to be alive.