and big logs—with frayed corners
that speak of ancient birds and time—
move about gently, barely breathing in
the pulse that scurries down the curved
ploy of this golden afternoon / this hour
has brought mirrors and scattered faces
we shape with our hands in water / we
can end this peaceful truce with our feet,
and yet we don’t, we choose to stay within
this gnamma of possibilities / we choose
to be these bodies that someone or something
else chose for us in the first place / we see
our own reflection at some point, we smile
believing in ghosts and responsibility / we
think this day is ours, although nothing is,
so we fathom a color, we trace the horizon
with a rock, and at dusk we pray to immensity