When the wide world was still
to be defined by a closed mouth
you’d gather to yourself
hours scattered
in the sun’s dry heat
wishing to prise the lips
of a single line open
prise the flow of time apart
How deeply wrong were your movements
like a sleepwalker’s sleeping awake
sleepwalking a wake—sleepworlding
the curved mirror of the page
touching up the backbone of stars
Poems grow in the dark, trace
the descent of sound
into silence
This is a song of silence
This is the sound of the bone
breaking through the skin
of a slow waisting
This is the sound of your breath
lasting through
like a mantra
Indigo moon shade
white gardenias
sun bleached hair
the midnight swell
surf sheer gossamer
mood violet
singing mother of pearl
No, it isn’t merely the wind
whistling in your ears
It is that faraway inside
your head—a whole world
drumming in time drumming
on some utter membrane
holding yourself
holding yourself aloft
wings beating about nothing
