The air trembles with similes.
This word wrestles that one.
The trees vibrate with Regina Spektor's vibrato.
The two-wheeled moon is some kind of metaphor,
swift-harnessed by a flock of crows.
Forty-seven blessings on the one who names my song!
My tongue
tastes of thyme I rubbed between my palms,
she tells me.
My tongue is tied to a dense, elastic dream,
I tell her.
And inhaling the moist
fossil words we shape,
the taint of ossified hope,
I cough and sneeze and snort
three poems quick as that.
Ha!
And what's to show?
The sharp arch of my aching neck.
All the best lessons
I learned from her, the arrow-finder.
She brushed away the dirt
and rubbed the shaft with silk until it shined.
She hung it over a threshold
so it could rest
and no more have to strike the prey.
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