The other time reaches me here, mirroring
tribal things I knew. Catkins quiver
on wet pavement — fish wavering
near the surface. The cold water ignited by their light.
Mist is thrown over the skyline
catching pigeons in its breath– a net cast over the shoreline
trapping what clings to the morning tide. The sea’s after birth.
And blanched leaves hang on the palm branch
slanting downwards in the wind — white fringe
falling over the edge of a wedding boot — while the girl
refuses to wear her ceremonious shoe. Its fit
too close and narrow. The vulnerable deer
felt in its sole; but unlike the deer
when the other time shadows me, I can’t run
back into hiding. It’s already there, the wild
landscaped in my bones.