Bring Me to the Window

and ask, when does it come to you? Is it a blue mountain or a blushing expanse? Are you most preoccupied with the details or the general shape? In most cases, I am unambiguous. I research from before and wait for movement or light to have a sense. Don’t have a sense. Do you? Yesterday the stars are a map and tomorrow they were a feeling. I see my face in the stars and the sea for the first time like a navigator holding his breath through the fog. Because it took five thousand years for the first vision of the world to take shape. For the stars to become prophecy, then veil, then dust. I am senseless and unreadable just like the ancient stars in the modern. I refuse to help you sail a calm ocean, much less an angry one, and yet the brightness of my apparition was etched brown on a yellowing cloth. I appeared to the roses as presence. Recognizable in every iteration as the one who lived long ago and whose first bones are now stones in the desert. Think of the dust of my bones and my bonelessness—my follower, my fan. Like the spine slipped out of a fish, I am her in all my versions. And in this one, I am inextricable from the peal of the rose and from the light of the garment. In this version I am analogue. Granted presence by the rose.