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 common ancestor enrapt by
blue black dawn.
She is the moon 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 breaking. The river has brought
us together, this moment taking shape within us
and, all this time,
me lying dead in the ground and you looking everywhere
to find the stone that has not moved among trees
willy nilly where their seeds fell.