I am working my way back,
practicing speech, re-learning
the language spoken at the bottom
of the world, where the hair is.
I am threading my way back
through the complicated rain
where the words were. They
do not want you to read this.
I am learning your language,
working my way back to our
last universal common ancestor
enrapt by blue black dawn.
She is the moon we see traveling
at the edge and words spoken from
dream. Listen. I am re-learning our
language. These are the words they
do not want us to speak, this silence
reverting to the mean. The lost river
has brought us together, this moment
taking shape within us.
And all this time, her lying dead in the
ground and me looking everywhere
to find the stone that has not moved
and trees willy nilly where their seeds fell.