In the Meantime

What seemed a mystery was in fact a choice. Insert bird for sorrow. What seemed a memory was in fact a dividing line. Insert bird for wind. Insert wind for departure when everyone is standing still. Insert three mountains burning and in three valleys a signal seer seeing a distant light and a signal bearer sprinting to a far-off bell. What seemed a promise was in fact a sigh. What seemed a hot wind, a not quite enough, a forgive me, it has flown away, is in fact. In the meantime we paint the floors red. We stroke the sound of certain names into a fine floss that drifts across our teeth. We stay in the room we share and listen all night to what drifts through the window— dog growl, owl call, a fleet of mosquitoes setting sail, and down the road, the swish of tomorrow’s donkey-threshed grain.