touches the cave walls with his voice.
Its curves and hollows form
the contours of the echo by which
he finds his way to the surface,
the way her voice used to curve inside his
as they danced like hands in the lamplight,
or sang their prayers to the dawn.
But tonight he hears only the open
before him, the empty mouth of the cave,
and the high-pitched star that just appeared
in the distance, quietly whispering his name.
I Would Sing to You
of the stars out here tonight. And I would
tell you of them, up there like music, if only
I could, but it seems my language can give just
these pathetic little hops, can not quite reach
enough elevation to actually grab the air and fly
up there and touch them and tell you of their taste,
of their feel in my hands. I no longer want to sing
of the way they move in my blood, or how they lace
themselves in your hair like fire; I want to give you
the actual thing itself, not just how it feels in me,
for I am a sometimes tired and dank place, yes? while they
are always sparkly and clear. Their dust rubs off
on my hands like mica, or tiny little particles of mirrors
or lenses, and I show them to you like an excited child;
my hands are a radio, sparkling in the dark.