Driving, and not speaking—listening still
—not interrupting the rain when it sings.
Whispers to the weary rest and be—
Still be the earth. Silent too, the lost swing
dangle from the rear view mirror. Not for
getting us home. But for the breath-blurred glass
we might have witnessed the retreating boar;
the year we caught our youth in the seagrass,
ten feet from the car. Wiggling bodies
cupped in our hands, set free into the world.
Don’t swim too far now called two large copies
of what we could become, not yet unfurled.
I can’t recount the last thing I had to eat
But that drive still in me sleeps
—too far now

© mohammed idris djoudi