Who can blame the ear
opening, as it is, into its own sheer truth?
Mouths open. Last words flown up into the trees.
I can still hear the way those lines reverberated in the air,
that great vault we spoke of,
the way the unsayable rests at the back of the tongue,
primal cry of the human, raw and plain.
I couldn’t name it, the sweet
thin buzz of hunger, constant hum,
the song inside the song
holding something that requires a great tenderness.
Isn’t that the language of the holy,
the delicate mechanism of the heart,
mysterious in its workings, its oiled
All day long it continues, each kindness
like a flower opening frame by frame.
The world is such an unexpected feast.
Make a small altar to it,
a bed of memory
filled with that first, unspeakable light
into which the sparrows of sorrow tumble.