Night was like day. Owls came out and crows
Killed them. Were we, perverse thought,
Forgotten? Permanent departure took place
Constantly but somehow incompletely,
So that, in the long run, it was cumulative
Departure that led to ruptures that felt,
Finally, permanent. And even those, even
The owls, left little ghosts that eddied, ashes
And memories like wings circling empty air.
We sat before the burial mound that was
The woods, the mountains under them,
The world whizzing around in the dark,
And told stories about what we didn't know.
Day was like night. Owls took vengeance.
None of this was true, of course, none
Of this happened, except the metaphor
About the burial mound, which was apt.
We sat in the slightly smoky light of mild
Summer afternoon and watched houseboats
Putter in and out of the scenic bay. If you
Could tell us why we did this, why we
Bothered with the stories, facts, and lies,
Why we confessed, we would be grateful.
It could only mean you understood us
But weren't human, which was the dream
We dreamed whenever looking over or just
Pretending beginnings and ends of worlds.
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