At the shore, where he stands, the day spills through its unmarked
paths. The surf tumbles beyond his hearing. The sand, he is sure,
is the dust of bone, drifting, crumbling, the dust of the bull’s home
from somewhere time has swallowed. He wonders,
will the fall be his own. His feet feel like claws.

Wind streams through his mountains. Seeps into his skin.
The erosion etching again into his vision. He lifts into its rise.
Feathers drip from the bull’s hide. Wings. Beating at his temples.
One, small bird. And the stone ridge on the world’s other side.
So it flies. Its beak bears his warmth.

The man is caught. He cannot see the season’s storms
crouching at the sea’s edge, but invites them under each blue ridge,
the howl of them in his limbs. The stone barely tremors. Hangs.
Tearing him from his flesh. The waves pound round his legs
and his gaze sharpens.

If he speaks, he must hammer, before he begins, the rock sounds
from his chest, hauling into his eyes, into the blue crags
of their distance, the touch of bull hide, tail feather.
He says: it’s what we lose in dying – the tilt, the chance,
the memory. The collisions crossing time.

He wants to arrive. Unbodied. From his voice, vowels
jolt out like cries, like tiny selves loping from his mouth;
faint, ecstatic barking. His eyes follow the sound – beyond birds
and bulls into the blue clefts of his dreaming. Each echo swerving
through the jagged folds. Curling into stone and vanishing.

Kristen Lang