There are days
when my soul feels
stretched out
like a ribbon
emotions
           hang
                  ing
from a thread
on the line,
like laundry, for
all to see, on pegs
vulnerable
           in storms
letting wind caress
and sometimes whip them
         round in beaten time
like a tempest
They tend to
get bruised, secretly
battered internally
as the surface of me smiles
and marches on
Vocal chords tightening
as the larynx longs
            in primal urge
     to take out the words
in one long
      graceful arc
             of purge
On these days I
need to sit
in the cloudforms
of my mind's eye
      and let myself feel
  what I cannot show:    
the daily coldness gnawing
    at my innards
      blow by icy blow
In these hours
I must let the tears
well up and run down
             until the sting of salt
penetrates the glacier
let the significance of
unspoken words
rise up from
the deep dermis layers
into my throat, my tonsils
up to the palate and tongue
               out through my lips
to the heavens,
releasing the unsung
         those words caught within
the walls of my neck -
they almost make me choke
exhaust contamination
from heavy, unseen smoke
  It billows up and out
and soon, like
hard-worked magic
this morse code is busted
because I am sick of feeling tragic
I command clear
communication
      to filter through
the spasms of fog
in drops of dew
I command my words to be heard
in tiny spikes of sun
And all the while
            in clear spirals,  
                    a prayer commences to
                        be spun:
for the harsh
               and bitter
be flushed out
             in unabated, icy rush
for my soul to rise up
           for the cleansing
in aching spirit blush
for the painfulness
of silence
to be ground out
upon the floor
for the shadows of
the violence
to be obliterated
to the
       core

We expected the violin's finger on the upturned nerve;
Its importunate cry, too laxly curved:
And you drew us an oboe-outline, clean and acute;
Unadorned statement, accurately carved.

We expected the screen, the background for reverie
Which cloudforms usefully weave:
And you built the immaculate, adamant, blue-green steel
Arch of a balanced wave.

We expected a pool with flowers to diffuse and break
The child-round face of the mirrored moon:
And you blazed a rock-path, begun near the sun, to be finished
By the trained and intrepid feet of men.