In dream’s antechamber beneath the sea,
the river of man’s
accumulated knowledge. Capture that river in a jar. Shake.
What you get is a bevy of perspectives. Of clouds, of the northern ice,
of all words once being one word. And the air
that begins all thoughts, how did it get here?
The way one brilliant day is tulips/
there are no tulips/there are tulips/all of us are tulips.
We are all breathing a little
of Caesar’s dying breath
(we are breathing a bit of this, molecularly, it has been proven).
Like this, in only a matter of time all stone must be life.
All adaptations and translations are salt into salt into salt,
some of the sea and some of the rock,
before we know it we’ll have every answer we want.