I cannot un-picture it exactly, this water      
but not not-water. The rope, cordage            
the bucket brings up from the well, a darkness
before the eternal nothing, something?—
the air we inhabit? The thrill of the grass, warmed?
I forget to understand, silence courted space before time.
Why not scootch a smidge, attempt to seduce a moon?—
snout-kiss each celestial mutt, anonymous woof, wag,
waft away—those thoughts I cannot unthink.
But meteor? Treble clef? My father’s death?—              
a touch of dirt clings to the nails of these words,            
swiftlet from the watchfire, signal on the wing.
Some passages do not pause for play or prayer.            
Who stole such hours, minutes, the tiny lights?—      
between November’s dying stars, all the unrested flowers.    

*This poem first appeared in North American Review, 2024 James Hearst Poetry Prize winner