Skip to content

I’m ordered out to a pile of rocks

like a distinguished corpse from the Iron Age.

The others are still asleep in the tent

stretched out like spokes in a wheel.


In the tent, the stove is in charge: a large snake

that swallows a ball of fire and hisses.

But it’s quiet out here in the spring night

among cold rocks waiting for daylight.


Out here in the frigid air, I begin to fly

like a shaman, and I soar straight to her body

with its pale places from her bathing suit—

we were out in the sun. The moss was warm.


I snuggle up to such tender moments

but can’t linger there for long.

I’m whistled back through space—

I crawl out from the rocks. Here and now.


Mission: to be where you are.

Even in this absurdly serious

role—I am the very place

where creation works on itself.


Dawn arrives, the sparse tree trunks

show their colors now, the frost-nipped

spring flowers form a silent search party

for someone who’s disappeared in the dark.


But to be where you are. And to wait.

I’m anxious, obstinate, confused.

Future events, they’re already here! I

can sense it. They’re right outside:


a murmuring crowd behind the barricade.

They can only pass one by one.

They want in. Why? They’re coming

one by one. I am the turnstile.