not seeing is believing

Bricolage

Two albino geese, white brushstrokes
against the black waves of water, floating
below a geneticist in a tree above the shore,

who winks at the wind ruffling the oil-laden

feathers of ghosts lying dormant in a gene,

in a protein, in a prion, a scion of light,

a Cezanne blur rather than a realistic point,

concerned with the moment not the memory,

remembered and so altered, Proustian crumbs

falling from a table of contents containing

one part synapse, one part salt spray

from the sea, one part impermanence,

the drift of steam from a train blending with

the tarnish of clouds softening a horizon,

handpainted on a day that flux and mutability

trace from a description years away,

a diorama of the mind that places trees here,

there, where there were none, the names, dates,

time and place left to wander dreams along with

the length of your body lying within the outline of mine,

time left untinkered without mention of your

breath, birth, life, death, still in stop-motion,

amniotic again, in a room with vague light,

fuzzy focus, hand to hip, finger to lip,

hushing clock's tick, the nervousness ushered

outside this womb, waiting for sound, for sun,

for sin, fortunate shadows holding the crush

of life at bay, now is not the past, now is not what will come,

now does not remember, now does not forget,

now will never leave, now is forever, now is never again,

now we are the culmination of theory, of doctrine,

of medicine, of epiphany, of sleep, of chemicals,

of euphoria, of knowledge, of sadness, of light,

of being, reason dances with irrelevance,

hand in hand, across water, across time to now,

carrying the weight of all that is known,

all that is unknown, all we have forgotten in this moment,

where outside a window, upon a liquid canvas,

the wings of white act as a consideration of the chaos

floating free inside all that is here, all that is now,

coming together by chance, the glance as important

as the gaze upon what we now remember.