This ear, this heart inside

the gut that listens to each
clamor the body makes before
it even makes a sound—

So the nerves frill out
like wings, receptive to
the smallest rumor in the air:
trouble, mostly. But also,

the quieter waves that emanate
from joy, though they might seem
too rare. I’ve had a lifetime
of instruction, turning

my face to any coming wind.
Another name for it is mother;
in due time it finds
its twin in daughter.

That sense finds kin in any
particle that darkens rapidly
inside the hours: cloud, wave,
storm; each slip of moss

that sandals our feet as we run
across the stones, beguiled
by fruit gold-chalked, tumbled
from indifferent trees.

It may be late for me, but I
have only wished for you that
rupture, that gap between
arrival and threshold.

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