He says something private, only
for them to hear, and as soon
as the words leave his mouth
they begin to die as ochre leaves
die, suspended for a brief time
by the atmosphere's invisible
efforts, but proceeding towards
their place amid the bones
of yesterday's forgotten animals.
The earth flexes and warps,
the borders of its logic recede.
It's not his words that speak,
but his voice, and this is his time,
but like any time, it's merely
a time, and it too will close,
as it must. If, uncounted years
from now, the light reflected off
his face has traveled to some
far place and is collected
by the alien telescope, the viewer
will see a perfect record of him,
but it won't be him. If only
he knew that it's now that
his life is important. It's him
reflected in the shine
of the animals' eyes. The whales
live in the cold ocean for him.
They speak tonight to no
other thing in history but him.
The grasses on the cliffs cling
against the wind, the seabirds
travel the coasts and the sun
burns its own body for him.
As impossible as it seems
within all the ungovernable
enormity, he lives. At the center
of the black cavity, he's
the impulse that sparks the heart.