If sand could be swallowed
would that empty place within
curve back into a solid
and home, that recedes at dusk,
be finally re-found?
If the night, that hollow we step between
to hide all the damage
we have done, could be devoured
and made to turn again into light
would we feel the sun run
free in the tired rivers of our veins?
And if my hand could hold the right pen,
if the ink ran into all the proper places
and the lines between remained balanced and sober,
would I finally find all the images and sounds
might fall still
the way a leaf tumbles down to the floor
and creates a sea of silence
for the many lives of the creatures that burrow
and scurry beneath the ocean of tree?
Might I, if I found my inside
had been turned out and drowning then
in the sight of what should be hidden,
be set free?