A

a child tried to sound it out
that’s what they call it, the adults
knotty wood and insect skills
back beyond that trap
that thinks it is a fence

black sunlight
blue gestures
black keys
for locks that unmade freedom
the child made a gurgling sound

there, where lightning lived,
i wondered, there i wandered
nearly free but not yet ripe
my pockets filled with knowledge

his arcs and dear traversals
our secret languages
and all he trained me to observe
gentle, and insistent
he must have been already gone

but present like a dreaming’s trace
there in the morning
vague in the afternoon

solid

in the garden darkness