They knew to place their palms
Where limbs were expected
To feel a gush of sun
In road the color of a deliverance
And drew their first ring
A house with a path for an inside
A growing belief in what a fruit tree brings
Instead of the moon
Few would follow night at the sound of wind
They did
There they hunted wood
There they lit their fire
There, they stood their tears
And joyful banter
Of huts around old tree
The center hut to be ungated
Content with baskets / beads
With waves
Came the need
To write of leaves
Language a marker of discovery
Language an articulation of empathy
There they banked in seed
Intelligence the reflection of camaraderie
Philosophy for nights of cosmic relation
And empirical debate never host to inflection
The truth is all had written down their convictions
Where
And how had the tide died down
Aren’t tides made to be abrasive and loud
Had they made peace between sand and an ancient need for greenland
Hadn’t the first no clear idea about the Atomic bleeds
Where to begin
Infinitely alive
They drew a pair of legs and eyes
Late last night
Not forgetting to add a neck waist brain or
A spine
Wanting to deliver color into tile
That salutation one receives at sunset
The point of an anonymous life
Let your heart
Said the youngest
Skip down our trail
Out of your chest
And we’re
Shape to come
Volcanic.
II
That first wave
Brought in a fish as large as wail
An abundance
They had gone swimming that night
For sun and stars and dreams and might
To say goodbye
In a generation
What it had been in the end
Was language
A definition to both what and went
Which meant what was next was a commemoration
Also a demonstration
Of force and flight
Reason being the very reason
For the circle
Of huts
The mound of salt was to explode
And so dreams
Went to sleep
And then accumulation
And then commotion
And then a riot
And then in oil on canvas
And then again.
