Nobody, nothing, can be more Than an eyelash, a neck-hair. Fingers exposed too long to the scrapes of turned faces
cannot whisper a flutter of lament.
Ears cannot lift the sound of
fitful memories stored in the eye of the eye. Toes rushing up to the sea Cannot console the bones
Lost while running out of waiting.
Every bit of story
snatches back under the lid.
The throat dreams in refrains.
The gaze reclines into the archer’s bow.
Praise is nowhere to be had but in the arrows that were never bought, meant to pierce in slow haste the smell
of silken hair.
Do come back on Wednesday. Bring me something in a language I don’t know.
Not in the speech
of dusty olive branches. (Which I understand too well.)
Nor in the one
of kicking parrots.
(Which I can mimic myself if I must.)
Maybe in the one that feels as soft as lichen on stone or better,
even, in the one supple enough to relax our restless tongues
between our lashes. In the one eager
to still night’s many messengers between the raised hairs of our necks.