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 as she
watched enrapt by blue black dawn.
You are 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, you lying dead in the ground
and me looking everywhere to find the
stone that has not moved—here—among the
trees willy nilly where their seeds fell.