As If Each Wound Might Blossom

Beneath the honey locust,
I practiced watching the clouds
both expand and contract

in the open sky. It is like that,
I told myself, the way you and I
hold each other and let each other go

at the same time. With the same hands,
we grasp and release. With the same
words, we emerge and we hide. Our bodies

become both altar and offering.
Our love is both curse and bliss.
I want to be vast enough to contain all this,

to be unfrightened by paradox. I want to bow
to the great What Is. But I’m small.
And impatient. Oh rats. I watch the clouds

as they shift from reptilian skeletons
to long white fingers outstretched.
It happens so imperceptibly, the change.

And I want to force it, to push it,
to fix it, to craft the world as I want.
And the sooner the better.

I want some answers, now.
But the answers are usually questions.
I’m not trying to be glib. But the closer

I get to what I know, the less I know of it.

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