How far does the sound
of one birds open ended warble reach
if nothing is solid
and the air is filled with continuing?
If every cell is a tilted domino
leaning into the next
then I am the last word of your conversation
and the beginning of your next.
If memory were long enough to fill this presence
If the same invisible verb
that whispers bloom to the rose
And dawn to my eyes were a noun I could touch
If this ink in my pen
is the breath of a child
in his mother’s love
then language is feeling
and words are hollow cups
poured and pouring.
And this bottomless fear
the one that fits inside every separation
cannot cap this sky
still I count stars
like breadcrumbs across every darkness
feeling the pressure of grace
my future already turning inside the heart
of one who holds me close
the one whose name secretly frames forever
the one who balances the clock I break
between sunrise and sunset.
Every thread of distinction
between you and I
is a safety net.
at the bottom of a drink
continuing like breath through sleep
in a country the body has no geography for.
This glass moment
slipping from outline
this full fragrant prayer
exhaled in one nights glory
is a beheaded love
carried everywhere the wind blows . . .
How can we breathe this miracle
and remain ordinary
in a state of unscented captivity
drown in the shallow end
of questions we can’t seem to touch
the bottom of.