Prospect of Release
That one is conscious and not know why
like cleaved rock or two that never joined
eyes blue in life become brown coals
silent as the Kodak into which they stare
from the rear of a backyard family gathering.
Brothers-in-law caper in the foreground.
Seasons, months, weeks, moments flatten
against the horizon, forgotten. To whom
now do I belong? An infinity of numbers
whose factor is three. I saw it was
a volume. At sea when I met him, light
poured in unrecalled, he offered no answers
to the questions I asked whose answers
were obvious, and I did not know why.