soft spoke the rock on which it laid
not mute but mobile and adept
anchor and boat and bank and helm
it drifted off and world took sail
and when it came to, nothing changed
yet nothing seemed to be the same
it stretched its limbs and cleaned its tail
and stepped towards a foreign day
it called out to the dead, but they
had different and smoother names
it greeted lines of spruce, but they
could only see it for its face
it cried out to the bugs, but they
looked up as if it weren’t theirs
and prompted it to leave the cave
as if they had not ever met
soft spoke the breeze through swaying firs
soft spun the kestrels’ carousel
soft turned two dozen metal ears
and soon that softness boiled to pain
it stumbled through the altered day
met with indifference and strained
and forest like its own but elsely maimed
gave to it no real path to leave or stay
it rounded southern lake’s extents again
as if the first five times were jests
wet pollen from its shoulder blades
rejected calmly by the granite sand
that’s when its carrion-hue mane
stood sharp like thistle palisade
that’s when it locked eyes with the guests
who held as if they owned the place
it dug its claws into the sand,
prepared to run or slice away
but pungent-furred salty pair
just peered right back in deep dismay
each apprehended other’s shape
a truly awkward staring game
the tall white thing shook head to tail
though still its claws shielded the ape
and now it looked right at that frame
that mangled limp, eyes like an elder hare
and suddenly it stood on two, not then
four walls of termite vomit, iris flared
and a commanding voice bashed at the doors again
and in the winding coffins coughed a sea of apes
that wolfed it down and puked it out through every day
and mold-stained bathroom’s only exit led back there
it dug its beak into the sand
and tore its neck to drive the sight away
and when it came to, nothing changed
except the owners were but fragrance in the air
and though the sight of nest intact
smashed at its heart like a pipe wrench
it followed down the morbid trail
spun stolen stories ’round its neck
soft spoke the human with its face
about driftwood and poplar shade
and it could gleam through tempered glass
how their hands tamed cold metal flame
soft spoke the pilgrim from the gray
about dead colors, deadly games
and matter not how much it strained
it could not spot a trap within their tales
they found it lying in the reeds
cold, half-awake below the fence
its feathers housed hostile dew
and craneflies warred across its legs
the hare-eyed ghost stretched out a hand
and raised the keepsake from its chest
and though the fear of loss hit like a wrench
it didn’t find the heartstrings to object
between diverging faces, human held a pair
of plastic cards, one clean, another soot and tear
one on a lanyard, other oxidized copper chain
their glyphs twisted apart, their essence was the same
and through shut eyelids and the tingling in the air
a heated gesture match between the elsewhen and elsewhere
resolved its fate, and the strange pair lead the way
it could not grow as much as quarter jaded to the gaps
to how each tree here differed only so
with every step, its stomach rang alarm
it cried quietly, loping along
the northwest ridge was wrong, so very wrong
and different thing watched after mountainfronts
they led it to the edge of a titanic timeless clock
and that is where it finally heard the rock
soft spoke the rock on which it would retreat
a ship in its own right, and just as much a sea
and though it felt so tense that it could barely breathe
it found the will to turn around and step towards the trees
lower its head in what it hoped was read as thanks
and on its carrion-hue mane converged two hands
and it pressed sharply into them, and then
it turned around and sprinted to rock’s helm
and then it laid atop that testament to motion itself
and place shifted in place, soil sobbing in familiar wells
and it cried out towards the sky that was at last its own
and sprinted breathless on ahead to its mountainside home