We burrow, mole-eyed and penury clawed
into the darkness for some prize
of burial-light and regalia
that pend on the end of balances,
tarnished bowls that were once hands
offering clear water to our geophagist throats.
Our gemstone eyes turn on necks of stone
dreaming again of fluidity
and slow untrackable growth.
Was it just a dream, these limbs
pulled from prisons of speed, bodies cut adrift
embayed upon our own tides,
and then that whirling dance with a partner
whispering ‘I am the manumission of wind?’
They crowd somewhere out in the daylight,
the way birds hide in the fingers of midnight,
weaving hopes around their tiny covert fires
and keeping the black chain intact.
Who are they, what faces shall they bear like stars
moved close and in constellation
so that their heat may reach like a gesture,
beckoning us from our boreal dormancy?
(c) Seth Grube