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the possibility that if I stopped clapping my hands in the void I would notice that I can't hold on to things and the possibility that if I stopped using my voice I'd notice songs that, all around me, sing looms in weather, lives buried in my days, with all my songd and rhythms going like the darkness surrounding a flame. It's what I don't say with my mouth. It's my mouth open to breathe in. It's open windows. Still, I will go on and on describing the shape around the thing I want to but can not name, in song and, though my long life feels busy and full of usefullness and drive, I will sleep through every single dawn and those I see I will not really understand. I will sing through every single song about the spaces left when we stop singing and I will sing this with longing. |
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