In the sky we find deep water
Much like the glazed place on the open ocean;
you know your reflection is there
but you cannot see it.
We call it the wandering place
those of us who know what will happen to our questions,
how they won’t be answered but swallowed into carpets of light,
and pressed firmly between damp-rock carapaces.
We are the ones who ask anyway.
We are the ones who would not have them answered,
but stirred, and braided, and returned to us
at some dawn that smells of quieted campfire smoke,
to see it floating there, our startling question, muted, and somehow brighter still,
the last glimmers of Jupiter before sunrise,
to reach out and grab it,
to have it back,
and know, somehow, that we are changed because of it.