by Steve Rubinstein
What you notice first are clouds
as you step out into sky
from wherever you have come;
they gather here in summer,
feeding on the many-greened sea.
There, in dim blue light
folding inward, slowly rising
toward the longest day,
you will come to believe
—a continent drifting away—
that memory is a corner
torn from truth, that truth
is not found where it lives.
