“Who dwells with shadows is alone indeed,”
the book noted. Nothing here can be real
 
if you want to bathe in light, to be freed
from the body’s prison. How does it feel
 
to be a child trapped in a child, to steal
dew from the flower and drink like a ghost?
 
The whiskey or the water—what can heal
a haunted heart? Listen, prayer is the most
 
direct form of language—on the long coast
all words crash in as please or as thank you.
 
Do you hear the waves? Do you feel the host
of hosts lean forward to listen to you?
 
When it all washed away we found ourselves
at home—quiet in this room where hope swells.