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.