Like a jellyfish, the kind they claim can live forever—
cycling through phases like a moon,
bequeathing over and over to yourself
all your earthly belongings, owner
and heir of eternity, but
equally, equally.
Like a sandbank in a level, nightlong rain,
dissolving
into what contains you, what erodes you,
what engraves you.
With precision,
like the pressing forth of jonquils tongues
through snow.
With pent joy, like a spinning seed.
Or like a seedling newly leafed,
unfolding
to its first sun.
Or a seed crystal,
vigilant—though long inured to loneliness—
leaning to catch the first click
of latticing.
And long,
until you almost hear what
may never come.
And again,
as if you’d long ago heard it once before.
And gladly, gladly,
as if everything you’ve heard of it
is true.