Hurry Toward Beginning

is it because the hour is late

the dove sounds new, no longer asking

a path to its father's house, no longer begging

shoes of its mother?

or is it because i can't tell

departure from arrival, the host from the guest,

the one who waits expectant at the window

from the one who, even now, tramples the dew?

i can't tell what my father said about the sea

we crossed together from the sea itself,

or the rose's noon from my mother crying on the stairs,

lost between a country and a country.

everywhere is home to the rain.

the hours themselves, where do they hide?

the fruit of listening, what's that?

are the days the offspring of distracted hands?

does waiting that grows out of waiting grow lighter?

what does my death weigh?

what's earlier, thirst or shade?

is all light late, the echo to some prior bell?

is it because i'm tired that i don't know?

or is it because i'm dying?

when will i be born?

am i the flower, wide awake inside the falling fruit?

or a man waiting for a woman asleep behind a door?

what if a word unlocks room after room

the days wait inside?

still, night amasses a foreground current to my window.

listen.

whose footsteps are those hurrying toward beginning?