Sunrise is a coldness of light, the way
small sparks make way for bonfires
but not fire; but something else
between the spark and the flame.
Here we have hermetic Angels, cave-dwelling
wings. To take refuge in the damp corners
of under the ground is to highlight
the stark difference between earth and sky.
Because we exist between things.
We are not, as they say, of any world
but only of every world.
See them flying down corridors? these poets
of our creation who climb relentlessly
up and down ladders; who raise hands
to raised knives and deliver veiled threats
to our children. They are poets, yes,
of an age far passed.
If you listen carefully you can hear
their muffled screams through
our thin walls.
Again, between this room and the next
we become parts of things glistening
as if in morning dew. As the sun rises
so does the morning.
It can happen no other way.
Mountains were mountains, and we climbed
but did not rise.
At the peak, a beach white with volcanic ash
rose to meet us, and through us it remained
as if the wind had ceased, then arose again
to find the name in a grain of sand.