A pond suddenly awakens,
takes notice of the wind
breaking moonlight over its surface.
A circle of trees grows inward
toward a center.
I spill whiskey beneath a table lamp,
find something otherwise unseen
reflected from the hallway.
I am kept from one conversation
too many,
and so it is that I am traveling
over mountains,
see the bruised treeline open up
into thin air,
collect an age of words
in that broken-throated moment.
A ring of galaxies abruptly
tilts its face-plane earthward;
rafters in firelight throw
crucifix shadows against a ruined wall,
torn curtain;
a linen closet door is left open
in the middle of the night,
and all moments rearrange themselves
into one endless orbit.
Creation paws at your
crumbling doorframe
until you notice,
stand up to see
what is the matter.
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