of lake bottoms,
me now of
we can avoid
into the deep,
of these selves.
The Wind Song
a number we remember
like fires 1256
spreading and dust
came as we stopped breathing.
our companions grew political (when
we wanted to grow human). the air
filled with ash.
we walked as the only thing we knew
-- our path lost to us; the canals shifted.
The plate speaks, and I hear
as wash, as slippage, a current
through glass with clear finger tips
touching smooth surfaces,
a stainless mechanism that breaks,
that heats and explores light.
Our lineage followed is obscured
and flips through memories of
other kitchen colors where conversations
remain lost in green and yellow
reconstructed with fences and gravel.
I turn my head and speak while
the others turn a face away
as human but without warmth or belief.