A wash of white uncertainty suffers
from openings left in the sky.
Our boat, constructed
from stringless cellos, slides
on ribbons of fish.
Above, wings of flesh reflect fire
bodies over St. Francis.
Our adopted sails, imitating
southern crosses & temporary bridges,
orbit a sunrise of text.
We move ghosts to see again
in any form other
than hovering weightlessness.
Indoor animals push against the walls
of our craft.
Time swells into repeated singing-
Every mother aboard moves quietly
from one outstretched palm to another