In the Atlantic pelagos, where mythic fists

applaud, squawking, look at God

and his sun-house, look at the way magical things

tumble, as hands of water order stones.

Look at the desperation of alchemists,

ragged with love, dragging recent inventions,

refusing to stop.


Where we realized that forever was merely

a plaything of the first angelic arm,

where wildflowers wrinkle in the dusk,

where we become paralyzed by a new

breath of beauty or solitude.


Where winter came,

and the frost made fields look

like they’d fallen from the sky.

Where the light of day was faint

like tracing paper, and barely

cast a shadow.


Where our voices meld

shrill and sheepish at the same

time, holding the bird that

twitches, wings folded,

eyes tight.


Where we want to wipe crumbs of others

from our memory, where we want to

whisper, sing, plead, this is Atlantis,

baby, do you still have a secret?

Do you enjoy reading the Nass?

Please consider donating a small amount to help support independent journalism at Princeton and whitelist our site.