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. 

no one knows how he got here. he carries his own gill nets and flies - a parade of musk and lavender across the baltic seas - past so many little catastrophes. no flame anywhere in sight, just the grey white of richter paintings. like a classic film noir. 

sometimes the light travels with him, sometimes not. and i am tempted to approach him, bring him peaches and geraniums from the south, old songs in greek about young girls and ouzo. 

it’s been years. i have yet to decide. but i followed him here and i wept when i saw the mountains, behind the sun, which comes & goes, like miracles. he goes on collecting light on a blue globe. i go on waiting, with the instinct of stones.