Bowed against the wind, curled in,
I am a movement, a sound, a pulling--
Together, now, further, and
Fear and clamor and all the things
Keeping me, holding my instincts
Rings around myself,
No longer furtive, sleeping.
Deep in the moonlight of a gesture,
My face flushed and palms out to be read,
I know without reading the lines of intuition;
I know--I know what she will have said.
Should skin flush at the touch of a look,
You will know, then:
You are in, that is, you have grown
Into the ground rather than stretching up
Your limbs become roots and your shoots,
They paper the ground and line it with dirt
And cannot recollect, so hum.
(Wait for a return, some aching beat
The sweat on your forehead heats and eases
While your eyes upbraid your memory.)
In vibration, wings, they cycle free
Collect your dust and the pieces of things,
Become a house, an empty house,
Let your floorboards ache to creak.
Follow something chiming,
Glint off the surface into nothing;
It promises a feeling and it carves itself--
Gives itself a home, splinters and frays
Let one of its fragments pierce, no,
Eviscerate your darkest skin and blaze itself,
Reconnect itself with displays of water.
I found a waterfall in myself and I spilled its pearls out
Dug through the pile with hands that were mine
And there would you chance to find,
To search for, sometime,
All the pools that drip out.
