Janice Greenwood

It was not the sea or the bell or the wreckage of self,
the hours making disparity of our arms and legs,

or the illusion of the minute unrolling from the spindle

of its chrysalis, changing us. It was not Alpha
Centauri or the shifting of tides that made the room tilt,

but my hand on the curtain, my fingers, pulling

the shades over the quicksilver, veiling the Bear,
already losing sight of the pole-star.

You kicked over the lamp, broke night elemental.

Through the webbing of hands
I thought I saw a sail in the dark, and fixed upon it,

until the end: a sail, a sail, a sail.