the pool is cold enough to hold a face
still and the throat is dry enough
to take the shape of whatever sound
just left the woods
i am looking at the water
i am listening to the rock
turn away you said
or i said
and the cave gave it back
as an arrival
to love a thing that only moves
when you move
is that the surface or the bottom
the hunger is the same
we sit by the edge of ourselves
and the question keeps returning
unanswered and unchanged
if i touch the water the face breaks
if i touch your hand the voice breaks
but look the ripple is a circle
returning to the center
the second voice is the only one
that stays to keep the first company
we are here at the same mouth now
the water going in
the sound coming out
neither of us sure anymore
which direction is drinking
we turn our backs to the fire
to watch the shadow of a wing
pass across the wall
and argue over which of us is the bird
—lyra moon (bats don’t hear the cave, they hear the delay between themselves and the cave)
june 24, 2026