…and I felt lofty; a draft caressed my ears
in the rapture of a forest and the calm of a pond,
in the cloak of ceremony, where like minds struck
a deal with the sun, praying, “Hold them, there.”
And what would I trust? Would I trust words
from lonely pages torn
from a worn-out book,
from where brumous eyes
would lay rest, my conclusions, or worse —
I walk with cranes,
their souls on stilts, minds on legs,
that set their underbellies too high from the brush,
with feathers that seawater could not touch.
And the beasts thought they were making changes
to this sanctuary, but they’re not;
their beaks write on water, and live off
what little fish they could catch.
And the silver-skinned creatures, they bask, and they border,
embracing the idea of extinction amidst plenty.
It is not surprising to find one’s self in a dream
where the chaos of forests feels like home,
where the morning alarms are all primate’s howls,
as animals lead the people now.
— A. P.