I know there is still time –
time for the hands
to open, for the bones of them
to be filled
by those failed harvests of want,
the bread imagined of the days of not having.
Now that the fear
has been rummaged down to its husk,
and the wind blowing
the flesh away translates itself
into flesh and the flesh
gives itself in its reveries to the wind.
I remember those summer nights
when I was young and empty,
when I lay through the darkness
I would have nothing of anything I wanted –
that total craving
that hollows the heart out irreversibly.
So it surprises me now to hear
the steps of my life following me –
so much of it gone
it returns, everything that drove me crazy
comes back, blessing the misery
of each step it took me into the world;
as though a prayer had ended
and the bit of changed air
between the palms goes free
to become the glitter
on some common thing that inexplicably shines.
And the old voice,
which once made its broken-off, choked, parrot-incoherences,
this time on the palatum cordis
this time saying there is time, still time,
for one who can groan
for one who can sing to be healed.
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