They said you lost one, and gained
something else something ethereal
something spinning and swirling
about your (now) sullen body of elements thought extinct.
To travel the lengths of a body the body must be still.
My blackened lungs are not your blackened lungs, they are similar
as if they pulled themselves away from themselves. There
is nothing we misremembered,
only that which we excluded.
These eyes, my eyes, so dark with film and dust
covering everything. Bathing can only do so much.
To dirty the soul is a surprising process.
So easy to flick bits of grime until there is no glow.
So difficult to forget
that underneath is light that is not light.
Stillness does not exclude ripples in water,
and we are ripples.
Always to become: spreading about the lake, washing
our hands of loose earth. As each ridge of our bodies’ journey
journeys outward, we lose our center.
Whiteness, we are whitened like teeth in December.
Snowfall, the blanket of winter, passes over our lake–
erasure of stillness to replace stillness.
And we are cleansed.
Two lines make circles in the snowfall.
Two lines like seed cross over and ascend.
It is simple to speak of god in our small voices. Small voices
ascending and lowering themselves
along a city street, now empty but for steetlamps and discarded newspapers.
Almost a ghost town, but closer to the sky
human shapes flicker and caress the light
cast by midnight-lamps. At this time on this day
nothing appears with color. Black and white
and where they meet a dull grey that shines.
There is nothing truly separate in this light.