We are standing like birds in the trees.
The searchboat's one eye sweeps the water below.
We are moveless in the glass moment. Neither in
the dream nor after. We refuse
to be crows. The light is gestural:
a query. It commits to the idea
of the camera, admits a certain pragmatism
may be necessary. We are a human number.
When we lift into the air, it is already February.
We form an eye. When you squint we do not
disappear. Your hand is at your brow.
Either you've seen this before or have not.
You will climb the hill when the path appears.
It is March. You will look back. Looking back
is a gesture, like light. Like film. You will step
into the enfolding dark and disappear. It may be
a dream. A vision. A drug to help you
forget. A story to help you
remember. You might be a refugee.
You might be one among many, having come
from the same country. We might be
your family. We might be
all that's left of yourself.