In a Careful Wood --

Questions follow me like a river -- Who

do you Trust? -- What

time is it? -- Who

are you waiting for?

I cannot answer -- I am

sordomudo, deaf-

mute

with high hopes and a broken back

straining

under your gaze, revealing

little

by little my credences, my

vaulted

pleasures unattained -- the

finches

perch at the birdfeeder

as the squirrels flush

out

their tails

on the ground

below -- the natural

world

insists we uncover

our secrets

to her

in moist caves

and

foetid jungles -- We

are here

with our triangles

of breath, blood, and

bile -- We

can

Unearth our Spine and hurry

the hours along

with sudden longings and

acute

revivals of

Spirit

now

bursting

with Cautious step

as

we hold

each other

in mournful silence,

counting

the beat, the

pulse

of our throats reaching

beyond

the clouds

and into the Sun -- We, here, who

will wait

for each other, ice-bound

and Fragile

with yesterday's tears -- Why

do we ignore

the instance

of fruition, the

scales

unsung

in our sheltered arms,

unheeded?

*