They come at night—
the old ones from those agency prisons and boarding schools.
They walk the sky carrying northern lights.
Maybe they’re looking for a road.
Maybe they’re hungry for turtle meat.
Maybe they want to pick up a rock or just smell the earth.
They shake their heads— Why haven’t we learned it right?
They can’t leave us alone, or let go.
They’re meddlers. Interferers with the lights.
Here— over this way— put your thumb in our socket—
see how you dance to this new light.