Listen loudly for the stirring glass

of day, unknowing. Her constancy

rewards your swelling incontinence

of spirit, grey and unraveled. She lowers

her eyes in hithering glance.

 

Listen for stolen subterfuge and

let your wings unstretch and prepare for flight

to the forgotten address, that place without

doors. Only windows looking out like

grassland sonnets, playing their words

for rusty ears, still ringing.

 

Listen for the ache, for those moments

when the pregnancy of pause reminded you

of anxiety gone bad, replaced by the

hearing of silent songs, brightly sonorous.

Even in your absence,

they sang for you.

 

Listen for the memory of color,

the liquidity of mind, dressed in its own

repast. This is the ocean floor, unmitigated

and confident in its vast demeanor. In these

hands, you are again – and playfully small.

 

Listen, unexpecting and directionless, for

Heaven’s mapping of your vine-choaked heart.

Something strangely reminiscent of good, acceptable,

perfect tunnels down to brooklets of diamond

water, tickling your subterranean way.

 

Listen for the intuited climax of

nothing special, wrapped in candy of evermore.

Blatent in repose, the jacketed wonder of a

good day, surprising you in presence. Listen here.

You have found the nothing

you didn’t know you were looking for.