I read about black-backed gulls
in the Gulf of Bothnia
skating under mica-flecked stars
in the heavy, Swedish winter.
The ghost of a large doe floats
down the bank, shimmering
in a confluence of dreams and sirens.
Telepathic, she crosses a frontier
outside my window and,
with no passport to show,
does so with a diffident pride.
I salute, and realize how very close
reality has come to kiss
my fingertips with something like blessing.
If only the words could hold still
long enough for the atoms catapulting
head over heels within me to abate,
I might quit trying so hard
to keep all the lights on
in this village of gray matter
and let the tumble-race
passing for thought subside,
and then, well, with what truth’s left over,
perhaps you’ll believe me
if I tell you we’re nearing
a border where all will be revealed.