All dark morning long the clouds are rising slowly up
beneath us, and we are fast asleep.
The mountains unmove
intensely. And so do we. Meadows
look down.
A city there looks up and
stirs a little. Adrift the rolling tiled roofs of
buildings, the deadly
trains of grinding sand and morning—
a spy unfolds his paper,
the coffee’s served.
A bride and groom stand shivering on a tarmac
in the mist, and
they are happy. Each one
and all of us entangled, the room is moist with us,
the house unfinished, windowless,
and we are fast asleep.
The brother of the groom can’t get
close enough. He leans against the brightest ridge
and ladder, the sucking
sound of memory
as heaven picks up speed and
hurtles through his burning skin
its frozen blankets
to the sun.
