each being , with its own internal rhythm
bearing a beat upon and through which
the body paces its singular communion.
complicit with your slow, secret signature,
as if
your life were a pencil and
for this time here you are ever signing
your point in space
your motion's legacy.
flaking rust and cartilage
sheered away.
rejuvenated red dust upon which I hook
a finger, a heel to gain purchase
- body language - somewhere,
an angle for leverage to pry the shadows free,
then, gather them,
as i would gather, to let
fall
again,
this time from
nothing solid. towards their own whim.
i watch them spread for the pleasure of watching,
*
In honor To honor
... the immeasurable
moment, set to set free
the future. the unhobbled wing.
- looking into you
at my self there. already
knowing. night sweats, precipitant phantoms on seat edges
waiting to see how it plays out. each page of the story overgrown.
so heavy,
a page turner, but
the page rips as i lift its corner.
rest a hand on the pile of scrambled letters -
edges, angles, points but (thought forgotten,) soft as clay.
fisted into a ball, slapped on the potter's wheel.
a simple form spun, deep as depth, a bowl the perfect shape for
a particular silence,
-a species of hush -
cattle breath in February, old spongy wooden shed filled with
nameless, sleepy tools and the smell of oil. the grace of unsaid good byes
in a weary heart, again nothing left to say.
the space between lifted foot
and soil... always
walking away without preamble or profundity.
everything i touch leaves its fingerprint in mine. that is
how i know
...this is me
