10.21.15
It does at last slow,
strict crush of nights into
abrupt mornings, fight
for breath in that chest, in that head—
it does slow—
and open—
In my body, the dense gold knot of it
stumbles randomly against things,
making my hands move, pressing
my tongue into complex phonemes.
Sick with it—
sicker now than I have ever ever
been—
I am certain—
Longing so rich it has to blur.
Cracks in wild milkweed pods
from which parachutes spill.
The arch where the woods open to a clearing
where the air
buckles like a heat mirage.
The thing I meant to say and then
the wind picked up and covered all words,
all need for words,
and my body spoke without them.
