In the rooms where we’re born,
there’s something we’ve forgotten.
We may have retained it until
we learned to speak.
But long before we missed it,
it was gone.
And so, like swans, our necks
curved into questions,
we mourn the loss of something
we can’t know.
But sometimes, in the corner of your eye,
I see it, memory of a thing too large
It lasts for less than a second,
swift as the ache of a stitch pulled out
around the wound it healed.
I know you then as we all know one another,
a wondrous fleshy ghost, a walking dream,
and love a word the snow makes
when it falls.