Tonight let the tips of fingers touch
together in the shape of a bud;
think of a slender wheel revolving
above your head, pouring radiance

straight down to the tired hollows
of your feet. How many times today
did the clapper sound its notes
in your chest, or your heart flutter

like an electrified bird? How often
did the bones that lie across the shoulders
think they might break from the very thought
of flight? Little fork, little trowel,

the curve of water on the shore reflects
the curve of the moon. You used to think
it might be enough to write down a list of all
you still needed to do. You used to believe

a hand skimmed lightly over a surface could be
a version of love: how you wanted to touch without
injury, wanting only to lay a quiet finger
over the places most likely to fold.


In response to Via Negativa: Meeting.

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