I stay away from light.
I stay away from meaning.
I is not the I.
I am like the rain to the rain, or like language
to language, when we are not there.

The problem is the lighthouse.
The lighthouse is not lit, most of the time.

I want to be those waves crashing in the postcard
where the lighthouse itself is threatened, the card
which is so very old everyone who ever touched it,
except for me, is dead.

The writing on the back of the card is another language
and I decipher it slowly when I read it,
then I rest like ashes.

The waves in the postcard are frozen at the moment
humans believe in most, because
it is the most obviously threatening.

But look at the grass blowing at your feet.

The soft green hunger of that.

I stay until you are an ocean again.