Tips

(August 2009)

As I walk this alone,

throw arms around

those who happen near,

palm flat

raised upward

bicep taught with

the weight

of what flies

trickles

pours

off each fingertip.

I bend at waist,

fold to floor,

raise what is now

full voice.

silent wail,

a channel of all

that knows it’s way

past once thick

barriers.

I do not turn head

to prepare for the

onslaught.

What rises,

washes full from

within.

Will come again.

I will not count or

presume

but let waves reflect

contents.

And know that each ripple speaks.

The last wash will cleanse?

I am certain of myth.

Firm in what I could never know.

What folds

will one day

arch.

Open.

Fingertips to open blue.

And not to prepare.

But eyes open

heart released.

Only me

reversing my fold

and direction,

speaking in full whisper,

still in pose.

Beside this alone

moves one.

Moves many.

But of this,

want is a sight that

could be shelved,

forgotten,

Deliberately misplaced.

Yet now

to hold last hand left

equal taught

bearing cross

and gift.

Leap, dance, lay

each movement

running through

those other fingers

that whisper to me

with passage.

Talk of (k)now

revel in what they choose

what has been traced

with repetition

so equaled touch

would be rare.

I want it all

and hold what moves

of its own accord

as my hand finds

the balance of play.