"That's something poetry can do for you, it can entrance you for a moment above the pool of your own consciousness and your own possibilities."* Seamus Heaney
it is not enough the eyes, the ears, the ebb and flow of calcium in bones of iron in stars sometimes silence pours down like a blessing some left their offices and they're now deciphering the eyes of thunder some inner power turns me around: the tribes of air the shapes of a child's wonder the involuntary rehearsal of words this passivity of language like jazz phrases the wrinkles of that woman imprinted in my heart (by her murderous fingers) spring gives me rose-like mornings (because of my bedroom curtains)
and there is something else this feeling of oneness the cedar and the flowering river motherly care, exhaustion, or not knowing and the hues of morning skies countless fleeting little gestures and the cries of birds tearing solitudes my complete abandonment to him in the sea of time
I let the window open every day is a declaration of love even when I hate the dance with the unknown the inextricable the polyphony of laughter and darkness
you live in me during the day and I **** your name each night anew