i form my lips around shapes
no one bothered to name.
i blow sound through them, untangling
a language of instinct and white bone.
jutting from the earth's skin,
pale and made silk smooth by grainy winds
un and retangled through the desert's
mouthless throat ... or easterly and
stale -- hot off industry's maw.
a language of boats built on frozen river's,
waiting to sail with the thaw. that's faith
or premonition or wisdom or
madness. the wind's blur down
any clear line between
the lot of these.
hard to trust february's sun.
Still yet, choose to --
just do. however landlocked or sordidly solid
your geography, learn all you can
about the sea. and the earth,
even as you breathe through gills and flare
your rainbowed fins.
dedicate wild imaginings to the rest --
whatever falls between.
write down your dreams.
mimic the shapes your heart takes upon
itself. set them to speech.
don't lip sync the facts.
build your sail with whatever's at hand:
stone, spider's web or flannel sheet.
set it true. again, believe.
hold firm in magic. don't
do the math.
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