Is that you
burning a sandstorm
again, until there’s no sand left for
wind to grasp, and nothing to
fall into your eyes—as though
a little grain once part of a rock
could possibly fall from grace
on your accord—and
certainly not worrying that anything may
fall
into
your
eyes;
is that you that I see now
somewhat differently than before,
somebody carved more
from fine point
than a painted anything with broad brush;
is that you that i hear
from the top of your world,
no one to stand
on the throne of your voice,
to swim within
your empty womb once
latent, once
furtive— still,
only a secret—
and
to demand more than you feel you could give;
is that you discovering new life,
with a still beating heart,
stiller
each moment still,
June 15th ’20