It looks like it’s me,
this yellow couch
in this window of particle and light.
Can we be sure
or do we confuse certainty
with things that stay?
When I hear you call my name
like a lighthouse,
like a shaft of dust in sun,
does that bring us nearer
to an answer,
or to that bluff
we’d never perfectly pronounce,
the capital of emptiness,
that place we’d see, sometimes,
up above the bay?