Perhaps we are all at one
or another stage
of leaping onto the platform of no name.

The leaping itself
wringing us of our pasts,
beneath that widow of a sun
who lives on.

A sun who takes the figures of our collected dusk
under a kindling wing
and casts our memories like bronze.

Men and women,
each resuscitated forms against the memory of machines.

Men and women,
each retorts to the interpellator time.

Each the quiet bosom of aging.

Having bodies is enough
to give audience to time.
Having matter is enough
even.

For the enslaved cool of hewn wood
housed over our heads
gives its audience.

For the porous shale on the path there
gives its audience.

Men and women
are on par
with these things,

however smalled we are
by their masses:

mere cracks in the
mountainside;

strange flowers between
the rocks;

giving audience to that

fugitive reaching up into the mouth
of another day,
another chance at

without name
-albeit motion,
-albeit bodies known mostly
by the edges of birds,

-albeit published
like caked smoke onto an outcropping of rocks
from some primitive fire.

Perhaps there is no leaping
but from such vertical time

as those windows out to summer
where peels of autograph
faces are shed

and the whole of our frames
is exposed.

For we have in our mouths
the explosion which started history,
in our mouths the Kalevala which spawned
independence from Russia.

Anonymous poems for these things
are already on their way
down our arms;

strangers on their way down strangers arms;

and still we give under the weight
of each other's hands
like ash
in a circle of stones
after a fire.

Still we take seared skin with us;

molting our pasts into the air
like dawn

throws its world
into the sun.

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