I was swimming with you in a river
that was both rushing and still.
a finger here, a knuckle
there, but never the hand al-
together, except in a vision
for which I’m loathe to take
any credit, even for a nail
So when you woke, there I was in my Sunday best as a funny little guy with a complex tongue and stunted legs who spoke the double truth.
the red coal an angel places on the tongue like a treat
The darkness arrived without your voice
or touch, my love, and yet I heard
your voice and felt your hand in mine.
Hold a hazelnut up to your eyes
as a lens for seeing through,
then wake to a katydid and say its name.
The darkness of my sacred ignorance enlightens me.
Mother’s cawing, “You must do what seems impossible now,
but you’ve done it before.”