It’s dusk on the hill as
the heady sky rotates slowly above,
silently aglow with vivid pulsing pink
around the edges, like a child’s fingers
eclipsing the dying flashlight of the sun.
Tangled grass sticks warm and damp
to the small of my back, a silent kiss
I can’t remember
if I just woke up, or if I’m still floating
somewhere in the dark up there,
everything smells like fog and honeysuckle
and the wide, fragrant exhalation
of the far-off ocean.
It makes me want to cry.
Where am I?
Will I remember this when the rest has all gone,
when I’m alone with my years
clogging up my artieries like syrup,
leaching memories away, like how bleach
draws colors from bedsheets?
Will I still see myself lying here?
It doesn’t matter.
Here are my fingertips
fused with the earth,
my gaze sailing in the clouds, my lungs
full of some sort of silent rapture.
All of it together in a single
phosphorescent spark of time,
I’m not just an observer.
I am part of it,
part of the tumble of existence,
the wild dance of the universe.
So as the light fades on the hill,
and the years blend into each other
like oil paint on the canvas of my life
I guess there’s only one definition.
I’m not a name, not a person
but a shared consciousness
an intangible entity
a light, a sound, a thought
drifting somewhere with the rest of it,
and I’m happy.
Right now, I am here.
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