Floating Bottle

Consciousness is St Brendan’s
Island, covered in forest,
Appearing, disappearing

Behind the storms and those waves
Prone to herding it around
The emptiest areas

Over the deepest trenches.
Time flutters like the bright birds
Indigenous to its cliffs—

What was a year to good clocks
Is an hour of consciousness,
And, sometimes, just the reverse.

No one gets to settle there.
Everyone swears they’ve seen it.