Up from under the window’s light
passing through the haze
– room dusking –
to graze your fingers,
there, for a moment, now, the future.
All these words, sitting there, ready to be used.
Called up out of the hiding space of your throat.
Called in to the narrow cleft of your ear.
Up and over the curlicue of your breath
out over the void you left behind.
Outside, there is no outside.
Action, thought, why we hover here
on the cusp of what is about to occur,
on the band between here and then.
And cry and cry for what is yet to happen.
For you, I iron my breath,
dust the flames from my shoes
grapple with my own fingers and their workings.
I go and finish sewing the apples back to the tree
blossoms to my lip
sprinkle flour on the floor of our kitchen
dance until we all return.
For you I will tie down my tongue
loosen my eyes
avert my palms.
It will be my job to fade the tiredness in the sunlight,
my duty to bulb each lantern
and polish polish polish all those tears.
You must do your own breathing
wearing all my wrinkles down.
together the flames
children’s soft kissable heads
or sperm in the dark with tiny lightbulbs
seeds and seeds and masses of them flawless
fault lines undulation
ourselves unzipped to spirit level
taken in the night
moved from ghost to ghost
at cellular level
My old wolf
found in the strangest places
(caught in velcro now)
and often in
the corner of my eye.
After the rain,
sing how drops sit
in memory there
on the blades.
flash the sound like
How small those hands
reaching from pooled water;
how tiny the fingers of the rain.
And a million little fruiting bodies
hats, umbrellas, houses
only need the gift of water
to own the earth.
Beading now, drying
what becomes of the
rivulets we followed all day?
Down to the lake
where they hold – fingers twining –
a disco of frogs.