The possibility that if I stopped clapping my hands in the void
I would notice that I can't hold ono things.
And the possibility that if I stopped using my voice I would notice
Songs that all around me sing
Looms in weather, lives buried in my days
With all my songs and rhythms going
Like the darkness surrounding a flame.
It's what I don't say with my mouth.
It's my mouth open to breathe in.
It's open windows.
Still, I go on and on describing the shape around the thing I want to
But cannot name in song.
And though my long life feels busy and full of usefulness and drive,
I will sleep through ever single dawn.
And those I see I really won't comprehend, though I try.
And I will sing through every single song
About the spaces left when we stop singing.
And I will sing this with longing