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16:41 Sparrow Song (come home)











Standing in the open field









I find a sudden sweetness









in the different, meeting airs,









how it seems the momentum of my









breath









builds a burrow in the wind.









Spirit might be this wordlessness









working a nest in the word.









It happens the way that time moves









within itself.









The living recall how they have lived









and it is as though the spirit









is stuttering.


















In my dream I called you 'home'









and the word made a pain









like winter's light in my body,









white and cold.


















It amounts to nothing much,









in the waking world,









a spot of dryness in the mouth









or a wound.


















Pray, mind, dream me a word









with no face.









Say, Crater. Kiln. Hummingbird.









Firefly. Say, light on the ledge









of a window, lightning there.


















Memory is this moment









containing itself, luminous and long









as water making a cave in the edge









of stone.









The speed of my breath









within the speed of the wind.


















Poised as lips









at the rim of a hand









cupping an absence the size and









smoothness of an eggshell,









deeply drinking.









Spirit might be this.




























2008-05-23