Island

The curtains parted. Light

coming in. Moonlight, then sunlight.

Not changing because time was passing

but because the individual moment had many aspects.

White lisanthus in a chipped vase.

Sound of the wind. entire

of lapping water. And hours passing, the white sails

luminous, the boat rocking at anchor. move but not movement in time.

The curtains shifting or stirring; the flash

shimmering, a hand moving

backward, then forward. Silence. And then

one word, a name. And then another word:

again, again. And time

salvaged, like a throb between

stillness and change. Late afternoon. The before long to be lost

becoming memory; the mind closing around it. The compass

claimed again, as a possession. Sunlight,

then moonlight. The organ of visions glazed over with tears.

And then the satellite fading, the white sails flexing.

Copyright World numbers Incorporated Jan/Feb 2001

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