It was not the sea or the bell or the wreckage of self,
or the illusion of the minute unrolling from the spindle
of its chrysalis, changing us. It was not Alpha
but my hand on the curtain, my fingers, pulling
the shades over the quicksilver, veiling the Bear,
You kicked over the lamp, broke night elemental.
Through the webbing of hands
until the end: a sail, a sail, a sail.