This is the space I hold and release between us. It is old and broken wood,
the smell of dark cherries and wine.
Fear from me
of joy and sorrow,
I am twice removed.
A round room encircles
a cage which encircles
two birds as they are made to
Blind is not blind in the way you listen, from the heart.
The seed contains the tree.
No eyes. Look here: no hands.
You track mud across
and I have come forward alone
and grow clouds among the weeds.
What worlds you open into that look in your eyes,
hand over hands held in mine.
We walk through rivers made of streets
moving, windspans underneath the wings
of concrete and glass, shattered collisions
glistenwhite in flight.
Warm blanketing creased faces;
all creatures aware of the dark
will turn themselves