I never knew a song
to have eyes
Never knew a song
to look back
To sing, without a single word set free
To fill me to the brim with music
not sound
To shimmer and shake
Consumed with stories
Stumbling over one another to make themselves heard
and seen
But then again
I never knew a poem
Could be buried
In the wrinkles of a palm

Cuticles burn and nails curve
Scratching silent yearnings into wood
I yearn, ceaselessly
Splinters bite and rage
But do not fill me with doubt
Stippled marks made by callous fingertips
I yearn for something less than subtle
Less than ideal and far more shapely
Hands cramp as branches crack
Unwavering, I'm asking
Will you yield and come to grips
With becoming my creation?