6am runs on an island named austevoll
make me a little weary. the pavement
lit only by cars that come and go,
intermittently. that traffic and hail of

light. i am glad for the company and
afraid of their onslaught, either way,
unprotected. all of us are now unprotected.
everywhere the glassy air makes

inhuman sounds. the unthinkable comes
every morning and wakefulness dims
our small fears of death
like embers and ashes.

we brush our eyes and step out
filling the spaces that missed us.
and to the ground we fall, like
so much snow. we turn and i think

the trees turn with us. things are more
than themselves here. always they
withdraw from me. either you play with
storms or you drown.