is it because the hour is late
the dove sounds new,
no longer asking
a path to its father's house,
no longer begging shoes of its mother?
or is it because i can't tell departure
from arrival, the host from the guest,
the one who waits expectant at the window
from the one who, even now, tramples the dew?
i can't tell what my father said about the sea
we crossed together
from the sea itself,
or the rose's noon from my mother
crying on the stairs, lost
between a country and a country.
everywhere is home to the rain.
the hours themselves, where do they hide?
the fruit of listening, what's that?
are the days the offspring of distracted hands?
does waiting that grows out of waiting
grow lighter? what does my death weigh?
what's earlier, thirst or shade?
is all light late, the echo to some prior bell?
is it because i'm tired that i don't know?
or is it because i'm dying?
when will i be born? am i the flower,
wide awake inside the falling fruit?
or a man waiting for a woman
asleep behind a door?
what if a word unlocks
room after room the days
wait inside? still,
night amasses a foreground
current to my window.
listen. whose footsteps are those
hurrying toward beginning?
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