i think i missed you

we wake

to create;

 

we carry some-

thing from the

 

night: thick

on us, in us—

 

a thousand stories deep

as the crow flies.

 

we were meant

to meet there,

 

you and i—

but

 

i think i

missed you.

 

i think we are

living the before.

 

—or—

 

this is my body,

broken for you,

 

like in the

hereafter.

 

we are here

to make some-

 

thing new:

but we know

 

it has all been done

under the heavy static

 

of sun. we traverse the

taverns, ear to the ground

 

for a philistine,

a dervish,

 

something royal

to stir us up.

 

we become the swine

digging in the pearls;

 

it is our

communion.

 

we sit on the dock

and wait; we believe

 

something is on its

way—a ship, a revolution,

 

a stay; a drunken glacier

swaying toward us with glee:

 

to allay our fears, our need,

our repeat existence.

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shout

the first time you
play out the skele-
ton of a song, you
hear the flesh be-
coming; you

dress the beautiful
bones like a doll. the
rush of blood and
breath comes last, once
it’s all assembled and

cast into the world
for her to sing along.
then, it will never be the
same; then, it will never
sound like that very first

time. your job is to
create, to not think past
that, to let it all happen, to
feel the full measure; whole-
note stomping in—then, out.