Digging for Now
In the womb of a candle glass, the flame bobs like a bird’s head,
wary of what comes on a breeze that is able to snuff it out.
Birdsong clings and cloys while I dig for the silent center
with ungloved hands, opening my ribs on their hinges,
tugging at roots for what is weed, what is flower, what
is food. My pen remembers what I cannot: The moment,
the now, your olamic eyes. The water in them, the sea in waves.
Your knees folded, and dark invisible walls, one single flame with
infinite poses. Who am I? Where can I retrieve your eyes under their
turban brows when you said against each second’s flash:
Yes, Yes, unceasingly Yes
Listen to a podcast of this poem here.