a matter of silence.
I know we
Again and again and
I don’t know what we will find.
I don’t know what we will hear.
You, there, across the room
close as a couch, flannel I can touch.
Red & black & white & buttons (undoing) plaid
Fingers mumble, we listen them then.
Language in the native dark, illumination-like.
Even at the other far away end of a thread
like letters co-mingle us, long breaths in between.
Flashlight becomes punctuation, comma’s curl
like lips, a new cocoon makes brushes of hands
Magellan painting on the sea.
Spare everything spring-thirsty-leaves like clothes, and emerge
where words left off. Your voice in primordial dark, could-be should-be
any night like any-night-might-be, becomes deaf-speak by fingers first.
Assemble vowels of open chords “without audible friction” (they say)
“a unit language, a cell & nucleus” (like they speak) becomes syllable
phrasing on close wet lips. So ordinary, just like an apple wanted to be.
And that was the meaning meant all those slumbered days.
Here, the dawn is hours walking distance now, take my hand.
Stir, like leaves-lips does salted abiding breath and realize
what was once fear famished becomes full, given way like a prow
does the water bay, and cleaving makes whole in wake.
It is not wisdom. It is nothing clever at all.
It is patience. It is willingness.
It is standing sentinel, drinking pulse of phoenix sun.
It is grapes & stems in the bowl. It is a coyote howl
blackbird grace, fallen forest trunk & what’s that mean?
It is becoming human into one skin of experience.
Neil Reid © February 2010
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