shapeless gesture; even the wind, as
only one, seeks for its voice, a belly tongue and
for its textures, a heart cracked open by high
pitch whistle through loose walls. blind fingertips reading
the infinite ending while the reader begs a beginning from any
random open page.

every morning's a foreign country. i wake only just arrived and in want
to understand its language; giving over my ache that my own might be heard
and if not by kind, learned and shared, even only
by one.

even only by one someone else nodding recognition, confirming my antiquated
hope, bound in tones and belief. short of this,
why verse, why create, why
speak?