everyone is awake and humming along to something.
we've been singing it since yesterday—
when the kettle flipped and the water went all warm.
i heard it first a few miles out—as the day grew
volume did, too—a little march across
the country. everyone singing several states apart,
heading towards the center. someone
in Missouri counting wildflowers: a girl,
strange shorelines, and every grain of sand.
distinctly you, just above the ground, quick
flutter, light heart, tracing flight patterns
and curves of blackbirds. they were singing, too
so many joined for a glimpse of swift rain and never-ending field.
we stood there, in whatever makes a field gold. all voice and certainty.
in whatever makes a woman grow—or the swell feeling in my chest.
there is abundance right below my left lung. i feel it when i'm breathing.
sometimes the noise is too loud; the space is small, and i can't recall
my own name, only the one given to me when i arrived. abundance
in togetherness, where the candles only brighten an inch of vast map before you.
and what of the dark canvas?
what i'm trying to say is, i like drawing circles with my feet in the sand, or driving
long ways by neatly abandoned churches in the deep south. some wrecks
exist everywhere. i like being carried
upstream by a strong current. infinite
drift and rot-averse. the lines converge,
and afterwards, continue on their way.
some wise drawing. i want to catch
the water of a wider ocean, still, i want
to be a different shade of green. i want
to carry my clothes in a small bag for a while
and drive.
(if you want, we can go—we'll
grab each sealed envelope,
air them out, the cellar
door swung, an invitation
opened on the warmest day in 2004.)