river that plucks with the wind at my sleeve
or the hem of my dress for attention—
I love my solitude but I love the light
that bounces back the syllables of your name
and woos me like a lover: then you are chime
on the blade’s metal edge, red thread
running through a vest, that something else
wanting to glint like a brooch or a star
against the breast of an ordinary life.
In response to Via Negativa: Present.