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,
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?