Under Starlight

The world I am upon is accelerating
and thus it is harder to be still.

I asked to know what is behind this world
and now I hold what burns my palms.

When we were dew-eyed children
the wind and the animals would visit,
the sun dappled across our new hair
and we let rhymes and stories unfurl
like morning glories.

Now we forget where our ancestors are buried,
we ask for a lot and listen a little.

I am sitting in the black night by the sea
after my tongue is too tired to move
and I can no longer grasp my plans
because they are saplings grown full.

The world spins more quickly
because it now moves
from the magnet of its own birth
to the magnet of its death.

Tonight I ask for less,
I open the little book I was given.
The words, though written in fire,
circumscribe the garden at the shore,
and tell me how to set out
a quiet and sturdy boat.