Time has no sibling. If I could run with a bear or fall into a green evening’s arms, you would know it. But the water took them one by one and drowned them. Everything real swerves out of language, even as language tries to hold on. I take the memories out of my pocket and crumple them up in little gray shapes. You are a minute with branches. I climb as high as I can, worried about whether it will rain. The moon’s children sing like a volley of arrows. Adjacency of gleaming creatures, forgetfulness and continuity, two violins in the brain’s broken clock. If I could play either one, I would. You would know it. Time wears a wolf costume. It eats children and leaves only the bones of this poem. I am a shadow of something that lives in its memory and waits for its return.