I know a man who wants to know the very hour
when bats replace the tracings of swallows
in the sky, when sonar echoes flowers,
sight's subsumed by ways of knowing

light-forgotten. Listen: that moan you hear
could be the farewell of a fisherman's boat,
the ghost you tried to leave behind, who's here,
or Athena's owl waking, clearing her throat.

This is not the hour for asking questions.
Feel the moon rise, her diaphanous robe
taking substance from her brother, the sun,
who turns away, slightly envious, cloak

slung over shoulder beside Reason and Truth.
In in-between time, mysteries undim,
the sea calms, cools to anemone blue.
This is the hour when pale women swim.