At the place in the story
where a knock at the hull wakes the dreamer
and he opens his eyes to find the rowers gone,
the boat tied to an empty dock,
the boy looks up from his book,
out the window, and sees
the hills have turned their backs,
they are walking into evening.
How long does he watch them go?
Does the part of him that follows
call for years across his growing sadness?
When he returns to the tale,
the page is dark,
and the leaves at the window have been traveling
beside his silent reading
as long as he can remember.
Where is his father?
When will his mother be home?
How is he going to explain
the moon taken hostage, the sea
risen to fill up all the mirrors?
How is he going to explain the branches
beginning to grow from his ribs and throat,
the cries and trills starting in his own mouth?
And now that ancient sorrow between his hips,
his body’s ripe listening
the planet
knowing itself at last.