We live in one time, but think in another.
We put flowers down, beside the one cut stone.
My father called
outside, calling all night long, in his voice,
Are you there?
The feeling in the breeze, inside the trees, we were feeling
what you call
a thing is seldom what it is.
This song and no other. Listen.
A whippoorwill, years distant
through the paneless glass
the last night of his mortal darkness.
It falls, as through blue breeze
warmed currents, loose galaxy,
the cool layers, the sifted light
and fell as stardust into his sleeping mouth
where he lay down and breathed
Good night, night bird—far off—through the high pines—
If it were so simple as getting up again.
This life and no other …