|
the possibility that if I stopped clapping |
|
my hands in the void |
|
I would notice that I can't hold on to things |
|
and |
|
the possibility that if I stopped using my voice |
|
I'd notice songs that, all around me, sing |
|
looms in weather, |
|
lives buried in my days, |
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with all my songd and rhythms going like |
|
the darkness surrounding a flame. |
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It's what I don't say with my mouth. |
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It's my mouth open |
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to breathe in. |
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It's open windows. |
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Still, I will go on and on describing the shape |
|
around the thing I want to but can not name, |
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in song |
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and, though my long life feels busy |
|
and full of usefullness and drive, |
|
I will sleep through every single dawn |
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and those I see I will not really understand. |
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I will sing through every single song |
|
about the spaces left when we stop singing |
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and I will sing this |
|
with longing. |
