To Clifford Hunt

Rising out of the past, implications
multiply at the end of each day
with statistics and burning cities.
the familiar silence
avoids objects and light,
keeping sound empty
without a trace of dust or age.

We watch the wind tug at accurate, glassed spaces
and remember wild, green places
we can lean toward
to locate ourselves.

Wherever loneliness rises
in an echo of itself,
we come together and plant a garden
of jazzed hieroglyphics.
beneath platoons of plumed clouds,
we create an alphabet of moments.
content with possibility and existence.
In the presence of the unknown
our voices invent an essential unity
a fresh hemisphere, with no vocabulary.

The Pacific flows nowhere,
but continues to knock at the door.
On Medio Street the laughter of our children
agrees on an identity and takes
the shape we live by.
Between the traffic
of human syllables,
and something you said
focuses the distance
into a threshold
beyond the eye’s edge.