is it
nicht wahr
all that
it isn’t
the speech
of sleep
walking
talking
unsure
unknowing
or the lines
merely towing
that hold
what she hears
caught and told,
so thoughts
that barge
clothed by night
so taut
with the breath
of heaven
in her sails
that winds of memory
may not fail?
was it
not true
that all
was spoke
that isn’t
speech
in the hours torn
who woke
in deep waters worn
standing
silent
certainly
knowing under
light fading
shadows
growing under
unwilling trees
fruit borne,
shaken
in the breeze,
in the waves
so many raindrops
in the sea?