From the mountain ridge, lights appear
radiant, the sea
indistinguishable from the sky
at night, which must be
the end of the world, a dark no one
can cross. Wordless, you are
the finger pointing to
the highest branch, a plate pushed away,
though the fruit is sweet and soft.
Men spill from the pier into the bay
to find their bodies once again
strong enough. Before long,
you can anticipate the rhythm
pouring from their mouths,
even the laughter a kind of music
you move in. One by one, the sounds
give up their meaning, the wasp
and the moth pinned to the picture
in the mind, and your voice joins the song
before you know it is there.