the moon looks at us in the shower
while a car washes into the grey evening.
somebody is born at 8:44 or so.
it is night. elaborate messages
are frozen upon each facial expression.
I am not sure how to get in touch
with my roots. which mountain
belongs to me. which lake.
I do remember swimming to the
edge, to the buoyed rope,
wondering how deep it was
and what happened beyond.
I think I find out, eventually,
but in the most unlikely places.
some are dark except for the
single ray angled slantwise.
sometimes swimming is required,
but not always. we are born. we
find our cars. we pack like cigar boxes.
we sit. we think more and more
about events that unfold and we try
to explain them. in our heads. to each other.
until the explanations grow more and more blank
as a fire builds within that either boils us or keeps us
away from any more life.
