Endless flats, endless heaven,
we drudge towards the quicksand
as the sun steals our grace, the wind
crystallizes our lungs with layers of salt.
We walk like ancient pilgrims towards
Virgin Mary’s island vacation home,
watch ourselves become less real,
less ourselves, more of the earth.
The world is obliviated, the seabirds
trespass in my mind, the little crabs
untangle my hair. We hold hands
but I have never really been here.
I am that tiny gold angel waiting
on top of Mont St. Michel for the end,
when the world will crumble and sweep
into dark seas. The moon is thinner
than an eyelash, she sheers my wings
as the beach thins to darkness, and
something on the port burns away, as
I fall, many villages over, to Honfleur
where we drink in the street and breathe
the sweet silty air of the town’s mouth.
The carousel turns me into new dimensions,
and I am orbiting an idea I cannot touch yet,
but I feel it’s pull; perhaps I am already cured.
I want to pray, but to what I do not know.