note to self:
The mighty says that she doesn't name a poem before it's written or maybe not at all
so I try not to
I try to write her with no name
words speak and write themselves
faster than the slowness
of my naming
good god, i falter
fly south for the summer
ring my neck
shake a wing
flying further north
because it's winter
so i try not to
because she speaks
fluid now and real
and in her ocean there is
no name
worthy of not forgetting
a gift to me for sure
a wordless azimuth
to describe
a pearl and its own life's making
and I am impressed
pretenseless
some remainder pure
and laughing still at broken
who shakes me awake when I wrong down the words
and try to name them
yet in the night's dark farmer's market where
flickers are rare and cost
what's real
I lay down the word that speaks to saying
and guides what's said and still saying home
and she is special
special now
when now is long and slower
and meanings mean themselves
where moments are rooms with echoes and time stands quiet; nearly still
when memory is no longer
so
and I not so full; myself
I'll forget the grass is green then
maybe I'll lighten up
remembering the road i wrote
the author of one dream
where words were meant to say themselves
a fairly special thing
never ever wrote a good depiction