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.