Heart turns on the timing of frog’s cry, to catch the light falling through leaves.
Amphibious
soul on watch
Tag: connection
Flower
One possibility
While the machine stoked panic to drive us apart, it was possible to choreograph the rests to allow all dancers to converge, an encounter in which each I gave way to eyes.
Making do
Between the living
Until rest
Until I can answer
Until I can do better
Until quiet
Until time
and presence erupts
against our absence.
Synthesis
Midstream
So many shouts, cries. Each an attempt to be recognized by an original source. For if not, then what hope? In these wilds. We might be united in this want for some saving recognition, joined in the effort to call ourselves back, if only we remembered.
Soundings
and wave
What is the opposite of the way we floated in that space, where it held us in that singing silence, drifting to and from? I don’t want to say it. Only that when we approached near enough, we gave names to one another. It was a way to hold and pass between us, all that reflection and depth. Later came a noise to shatter that silence, and we stopped passing names. I may forget my own, soon. Or the one that held me floating, more than mine. I make this feeble note, unsure if I can sound it anymore. It is the scrap of a decimated raft. I hold it, something between here and that endless down.
The Catch
Amid these knots
Maybe when these wants have burned away,
and I have renounced all that I––or anyone
––ever thought to know, I will be enfolded
by the net I learned to struggle against
in the name of saving my life
and maybe then I will learn how,
despite consensus to the contrary,
the net is all.
Earshot
Within them in us.
It was a ceremony. It was hearing. We were pilgrims and wanted to be heard. As now, in hope of returning––somewhere. It seemed we shared this. A common dream? Maybe. Of a time when we were. Uncertain, we did not speak, but listened, the echo of our assembly in our flesh, resounding.
Against the Sirens
The telling
Tell me about it, we say, nodding at the most recent lament before us––in the chair, at the table, with the tired voice; in passing in the wild rush. Tell me, we repeat, like shaking a clean sheet to fold it before stacking with the others, who whisper in chorus at this gesture and its countless kin, constantly throughout each day, a plea for a home not quite remembered or fully left. Tell me about it. Tell me about that place I can always remember, ever almost. Whisper to me of this collective hush again, what I need to hear against the sirens.
Range of Sound
Set alight
The moment in flux––all danger, possibility. Turbulence of arrival within the dream where each other is the heart of each I, drumming.
webbed, woven
the numbered stars
the hearts of us
each inside the other
constellate roots to mirror
the desert dreamer’s night sky