I shovel the endless yellow ocean
and I am the rug, the floorboards,
opening and closing beneath quiet feet.  
Skipping stones and drifting tones, the world is quiet
and uneven, full of meadows and sadness.
Children jump through the bright haze
like lovers to conclusions, heavy with dulcet words
and poetry. I watch their edges blur
as they ricochet off one another
and I can barely remember.
neither here nor elsewhere; I am okay,
a feather on the waves. Something of a memory
shifts across the surface, glinting on my tongue,
and leaves again faster than before.
Woven with the wool resting on your eyes,
I am sure that your bonds are my bonds,
but skin is soft and isolation climbs underneath it.
I am a horizon endlessly unravelling
and you are an echo of a distance I can no longer recall