Not here. Never was.
Vapor.
Drifting

(Through the open window:
Cars sigh down a damp street
an outcast dove coos to itself in the stone courtyard
black leaves rustle against the gray skin of sky )

But from me
no sound

Not here.
Never was.

Instead:
Sinking
down through slow green currents
where sleep-fish nibble dreams
and words unfurl like languid seaweed

past columns of light
where ghost-fish, ghost-selves
weave through kelp forests and
bone-white ruins
to the mystery of chambers beyond

Gliding
along the marine floor
in and out of light and shade
in and out of now and then
in and out of maybe and never-was

Down here
everything is possible
everything is probable
everything ever imagined at any time in the history of the world
now exists
all at once
and without end.

I’m not here. I never was.
Just vapor.
Drifting.

(Through the open window:
A sound like tearing cloth rends the sky
the dove’s complicated contralto is sliced
mid-note
light torches the world yet again)

“So that the genuineness of your faith, more precious than gold
which though perishable
is tested by fire”