I remember

I remember the tone the sunlight made
reflecting as it did

that first breath of late night morning aim
the feeling that here was anywhere
and anywhere was kind
plumes of smoke funnel overland and meet us there
as though our late night tales joined to feed our breathing
and each breath kept golden remnants of a fireside tale inside
safe but boundless

to hang like bubbles over us with each completed breath
not born or dying, but reassembling the very air
a ceiling to our meaning, or spring for new sounds to bound from
no essential measure of beginning or belief
no escape and no relief, but safe
safe as shapeless
shapeless on a turning wheel of casting possibilities that change the wheel
the tick becomes imagined and steel to silk

(Rick Holland, spoken word)