If the water, everywhere, and if she
is. If ghosts, like water, like if all
rivers and oceans and rains are one
ghost, surrounding and throughout.
If she is, like if the lakes and bays
of Seattle define Seattle, if the ices
Of Mars and Massachusetts,
hidden in their deep stones, define
Mars and Massachusetts; if she is.
A thirst unmet, alkaline or saline,
the water not touching that thirst,
if my thirst wants something else
entirely. If she is. Water, if it is in
and is blood. If invisible until
exhale. If science lies and water
doesn’t reflect sky but sky this
water. If she is the sound, if it isn’t
essential until its lack. If she is
the sound of. Waves. If in the body,
the dew in morning, and the moon.
If she is the sound of the water.
If rising, if breaking, if throughout.
The dandelions in the moment and then
It is. And needles don’t fall;
cones don’t fall. The soil keeps
holding the grass seed and the dune
sand beneath is still torn by thirsty,
wooden hands. By bedrock
is where will be my tenoned pine.
And the grass seeds don’t split,
their shoots don’t spill. The clouds
remain, widely. That locked closet
inside will never have its tumblers
turned. Honestly, all I had
was the only lie—that I could be
the one who evades. Sparrows
don’t fall, no owl falls. Left behind
are her thin hands, a box full
of ribbons, a bolt, a knife.
Photographs with anybody’s faces.
Hungry letters, angry letters about
a time and people and love that is
not. No image holds its meaning
within itself. Not one dandelion fell.
Please. Something did happen here.