The hawk didn’t fly by itself. Something was pulling its
feathers through the air current, making it soar like
ink from an ancient brush.
Something was making the old oaks sigh in
five-part traditional folk song, and
it wasn’t the wind.
When the dancers flew around the circle as though their
legacy depended on speed, it was something
spinning their father’s father’s father’s
These are forces that go ignored in three dimensions, maybe four.
These are the sounds you only hear deep underwater as you drown.
This is the wheel you walk in, too big for you to notice as any pattern.
Don’t you know your every word that flows into the sieve of the
microphone flies direct in one hundred simultaneous translations?
You fail to see the full scale of your fingerprint, wonder of the world.
Even as you lay there, kept locked out of the sleep you’re thirsting for,
bees make honey in the chambers of your pumping heart.