Sounds tug at me,
a worm’s soft tunneling, riffle
of an underground spring.

Leaves tell ghost stories.
Clouds gently brush
each other in the breeze.

Beyond this, in a place
with no wind, where every color
feels like silver, and sound

crawls through the thickest time,
the last words of a dying star
fall

in this voice of dust and jewels,
a creaky moan.
This language I don’t understand

becomes part of everything,
dead or living.
It comes

from the mouths
of every heron and wolf,
from the sleepless

moon’s mind to scatter
stories over the lake
like stars.