by Malena Morling
You know that moment in the summer dusk
when the sunbathers have all gone home to mix drinks
and you are alone on the beach
when the waves begin to nibble
on the abandoned sand castles—
And further out, over the erupted face
of the water stained almost pink
there are a few clouds that hold
entire rooms inside of them—rooms where no one lives—
in the hair
of the light that soon will go
grey and then black. It is the moment
when even the man who mops the floor
in the execution room of the prison
stops to look up into the silence
that grows like smoke or the dusk itself.
And your mind becomes almost visible
and you know there is nothing
that is not mysterious. And that no moment
is less important than this moment.
And that imprisonment is not possible.