There was no moment apart from this stubbing self
and its newest habit
to hurt. Rapid, what we battered about.
In the courtyard, a boy in embroidered turquoise held a small rack
of candy strapped to his chest.
It was a sweet estate. Summer: blurred and distracted.
We had fought all week. Shut in
to greater, deeper, no response. Missed
the plane, which lengthened its vibration.
Stephen Hawking spoke of three different times that converge.
Walking into darkness, we found the darkness
a history of bat wings pushed to pinwheel.
That city wrapped in its buds. Its curbs and dogs
soaked to concrete. Did you see around us those careless
with joy all those hours
we shadowed? Such shame to need
what I can’t remember: the communion, or red skirts, the drench
as citrus let out its juice. Filled
with the reflex to find what is holy, we went—
root and plaster, doorways,
similar flowers, ghosts and cactus spines. In each place, I looked
through a lens as the sun
dispersed to its mirrors. And in some frames I found
God or salt, some high-pitched singing.
The church served its bells
as if to sound what I feared. How little I know myself. I love you.
We will die, live; these are our options.
The bats slanted, concealed.
They never stopped. You carried what we need.
