It seems to me that
life can be so deliberate;
My violin without strings
hanging on a wall.
My mice that yawned to sleep.
My papers that read of illnesses.
And I
Am tucked into
the birthing place of words
Agony~~ desire~~ paradise
Beyond reach
from all possibilities of anything
And elsewhere.
I smiled
At this Hand
that Touched:
this Hand
that conducts the moon to sing,
that shatters the sun
into a kaleidoscope of colors
purer than light.
