The Graves

So here are the strange feelings that flicker in you or anchor like weights in your eyes. Turn back and you might undo them, the way trees seem to float free of themselves as they root. A swan can hold itself on the gray ice water and not waver, an open note upon which minor chords blur and rest. But it was born dark. The shore of that lake is littered with glass. How you came to be who you are was all unwinding, aimless on a bike, off to retrieve a parcel that could only be a gift, and felt, as a child, the sea weave around your feet, white light rushing in with the surf. What lived there? —Joy, dispatched from nowhere, and no need to think about your purpose, and no fear that the sun gliding down might burn the earth it feeds. Black habitat of now in which decimation looks tender. Sometimes the call of a bird is so clear it bruises my hands. At night, behind glass, light empties out then fills a room and the people in it, hovering around a fire, gorgeous shapes of wind leaning close to each other in laughter. From this distance, they are a grace, an ache. The kingdom inside.