2 December 2002 | Vol. 2, No. 4
When the Story Opens
The ocean unfolds itself. The tongue stays put,
unreadable and needless.
We come to watch, speechless to the lake
where dragonflies dip their abdomens like brushes
to lay their eggs on the reed stalks
painting the future in small daubs.
When the story opens, a door closes. You are called
to attention, to more particular and the ocean named for it,
Atlantic and Specific.
At night we are the Janus sleepers