Mountains at a distance blur the horizon.
He tries to explain himself like scarecrows,
through dance, explain themselves to the raven.
He mistrusts the shapes of this common world
presented with such precise clarity,
as if lines like these can be so thin and
impermeable to divide us all
into differentiated grains of sand.
Another wave tumbles along the shore,
he cannot wait for the water to clear.
Along the edge of the fog, figures dance
between the trees weaving a patterned lace.
He watches the moon rise above the hills:
Who’s there waiting—the widow, or the bride?
(August 12, 2016)
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