Blackbirdan online journal of literature and the artsSpring 2016  Vol. 15 No. 1
an online journal of literature and the arts
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We Could Be Dreaming

Morning strikes our eyes,
a mist from kicked-up waves, in the photograph
where we met on the island of sun—
sending signals toward other peaks from other times
over the bow of a boat waving its Bolivian flag
torn in half.
Five years of wind and daily crossings
from island to mainland
under sheer sun, a lake above the clouds,
mold a formation of island
another birth—the depths of darkest blue: forbidden.

Give me ink swirls of evening,
dreaming pools,
let the trail collect into insight from elevation;
walking in a loop
the parameter of this place,
if we sleep, we will sleep on wooden beds.

Children: watch me read this book.

I was called to be a traveler, usually moving
faster than our boat: tomorrow there will be a bus.

The sunset reveals dimples of a sandstone block,
its legs carved into cubes
low, like a table—

They must have surrounded it while kneeling

for meals or a sacrifice, for being alone

to wait for a star—

to be contacted through the sound of a flute

awake in your bed with the thought that you must return

under moonlight to find its rain

across sandstone—

carries the surface away;

so rehearse the night against a boat’s metal hull,

and whatever screaming babies are on vacation,

if you take this journey

we will be living between the lake and a land.

For many years I have thought

this language is important.

Do you swim across for six hours
to become stranded? We are still searching

for a wind to bring it closer,
that blurred insight,
and these fine-tuned throttles
so close to the sun.  

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