At the grocery store, I've seen birds quicken through the low rafters, fly above hills of misted vegetables. When light comes through the blinds or through a fan of glass set into the door, the old urge to name it otherworldly hangs in the air. What can't be metered and weighed, split and parceled, must come from the same remote country as rain and fog— I want to wrap my hands and throat in it, breathe it in like the amber-tipped dust pushed out the sound hole of a string instrument; I'd hold it out to you like a first slice of bread in the morning. I wrote to say I found the hair wash you wanted, but didn't hear back. I am unconsoled by the thought that it isn't sound but the memory of sound a body turns to, as it tries to make its way ahead of itself.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.