the folds of memory

the only sense
in holes
is they are
the deeper valleys

between the combs
of the waves
coming and going,
in the arms of the sea,

the waves running
and flowing
we sink and rise
and fall and fly

and in between
we swim
and see holes
in the mantle

of  time,
in the folds
of memory,
the garment

of illusion,
and then see
the bird takes
you on his wings

and you learn
to fly,
the sky opens and
you are not asleep