If I could wander the beach
with a slip underscoring my skirt like foam,
a harp under my arm mapping the air
with its musical longitude,
I would be like her. Spirit or shadow
always on the strand of time
never fitting the pace that treads
terminal or tunnel, a street of clocks and lamps.
A block of granite and glass.
If I could carry my craft against my rib —
alder wood against maiden bone, I would sense
the weight of being all song. Song that transcends,
sings ageless anywhere the sea winds drift
and the slow tide rolls or birds scavenge
the earth’s skull for lost souls.
If I could risk the cutting of roots
and cloud cover for a roof, I might reap
possession of myself, a portal to the unseen.