I am anchored to a shadow
or perched upon a park bench
made of echoes
where the wind gathers
like a secret
and my quiet hungers
suddenly demand
their wild pulse
It feels like I've met you
in the hollows between heartbeats
in the cooling of a cup of tea
in the silver static between radio stations
in the lean of the grass
toward a light unproven
or a memory, unmade
I’m pausing here
amidst the ruins of metaphor
gravity is loosing its grip
a street sweeper is clutching
unknowingly
a piece of wood that remembers
it was a tree