Dear country, did you wait for me?
Did you halt yellow trains as they vipered the engineered rural, did you quiet currents, letting duckweed slowly lock the waters—have you been a grand museum of immobile waterfowl and ruminants, flies on their nostrils, millipede life under leaf rot, stock still — where it rained, did glass drops hover in a splintered universe of damp,
dear land, when I dropped the spindle, did you pull the main? Did you freeze in the air the motions of bicyclists, hooligans, vendors, classroom chalk scraping in cursive, past imperfect — was there a static silence on all radios?
Sunrise. Here is that private sea scrolling in, typing you an endless letter. The plane makes its fluid, plummeting turn, and my window fills with land. Here is the clay that holds the brittle calcium of them who made me, have they waited— because I waited for you, in my blind and percolating marrow all the years I waited, sleepwalking, speaking a daft language flawlessly.
Now the roads are ribbons, and the cars begin to crawl, and I would like to rise with you; I’d like to be so awake.
I’ve drunk repeated coffees from a small and unbreakable cup that a child might use to serve tea to a wiry monkey and a one-eyed bear. But I have left her in another country, sleeping.
And my hands shake.