... the possibility that if I stopped clapping my hands in the void I would notice that I can't hold onto things
and the possibility that if I stopped using my voice I would notice songs that, all around me, sing
looms in weather
lives buried in my days
with all my songs 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 go on and on describing the shape around the thing I want to but cannot name
and though my long life feels busy and full of usefulness and drive,
I will sleep through every single dawn
and those I see I really won't comprehend, though I try,
and 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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