I would like to be the air/that inhabits you for a moment/only. I would like to be that unnoticed/&
that necessary. ~Margaret Atwood
Everything that happens, happens
to ride the flutters of wingbeats,
eternally here. Fendered and pale,
the girl wears long beaten path
to water, fingers tune the air's tender
strings, dull eyes grind the sky into
breaths of a thousand oceans.
Carrying them on currents by which
she swirls the spent lagoon deep,
like sinuous turns of gossamer
veining in a glass jar, making dark
toss about the weightless silhouette.
Then she must be bold, moving
the way a wraith takes to haunting,
arrested so that she is a giver of light,
and life, in whispers, in invocations,
where each caress remains on her lips
as nocturne holding taut the world.