Moon-lit, the old gown glows inside the grove.
Outside, the birds drop
to the earth.
the garden awakes to its own green throb.
True, I was a witness
webbed in my own wobble.
In place of a tongue, a lit torch;
in place of a mouth, a dark room.
I walked toward the glint, the moon slouched
over the landscape like a grazing cow.
Tired, I sat under a tree thinking
it was skyscraper;
had a dream inside a dream
where an artist asks how long I have been in my body.
In place of words, a tiny waterfall
rumbling within my bones, spilling out.
Dusk took the shape of a dog,
raced itself toward the cliff
of the world.
True, I was a witness
wounded in my own mortal wonder.
On the field, a carpet of stars—
a boy my brother’s age scoops them,
hangs them back in the sky, asks me
if I’d love to learn the trade.
The question beats logic to a pulp.
I surrender my clarity to the wind,
trade my breath for its howl.
I shut the doors, stared at the walls
for a meaning—I broke the mirror,
knelt in the ruin mourning my clumsiness.
This is life, a myth we’re thrown into—
spun by time.
I clocked my heart out
of faith,
swiped it through fate—
I was the witness—to the self.
The dream replays itself; this time,
with the birds rising from the earth.
God, I couldn’t have guessed my own redemption—
couldn’t have dreamt the birds’ resurrection.
I was breathing inside the riddle—
what did I know of the gown or the grove,
what did I know of the tired self?