from goods borrowed or stolen,
and we ask who and why
of tea leaves, of stars, of
a god we hear only in silences.
In the absence of answers,
we take up this pen, that music,
this lover, that thief, weave stories
that ravel or hold depending on
the slant of sun on blank pages.
We set lines to capture flashes,
those hints of knowing almost,
almost, yet find they slide by
like bright fantailed fish, all
but this one almost too near to see,
this one that offers us nothing
but this deep stirring of currents,
this hunger for stories woven of goods
borrowed or stolen from time. This one
that seems so tame until touched.