What is this body?
What is this neck, and these teeth?
What is this sound?
This sound (do you hear it?)
coming from some deranged creature deep in the green,
coming now to these honeyed branches,
mouth drawing its bow on the violin,
eyes listening for the wind’s slashing stanzas.
Here, drunk and cleansed by sweetness.
Here, struck into song, then released.
Who knows the distance of this flight?
Who knows anything of the current, or the risk
of staying still, or the risk of leaving,
or the risk of silence or chatter, or the risk of losing the way,
which is always happening.
What else is there?
Aren’t we the beautiful disaster we are always on the verge of making?
Why would a heart be willing to break,
if not for this?