Someone, perhaps on another page, will say, what happened to the light, to the orange sphere suspended in a play of verticals high on an urban hill—the one that pirates hacked to pieces and buried in the dirt—and to you, ever on the shore, fingers tangled on the old keyboard, and above, the invisible hulking wind grabbing leaves and birds.
Someone will say, it’s time to return to the space where drops hung suspended as the sun passed, in the empty blue.
I believe in death, in death’s eternal pulse, and I believe our moment will come again when the sea regains its color and the sphere lights up, emblazons the hilltop, and celebrates the dignity—this time—of the sick at heart.
