the light between the cables
battle after another. Not when your gaze trembles at each obstacle, real or imagined,
like those hurdles on the high school track which, when you had legs for it, weren't scary
at all but beckoned you to leap. And not when records of old failures spin your mind
into a dizzy carnival, turning you timid, too shaken to look. But it's there, nonetheless,
waiting to be seized, a window to a view sometimes so vague, you'd mistake it for mirage.
It may never get any clearer than this. There will always be a reason to fixate on the mess
of wires instead, spend your remaining minutes on the futility of disentangling. So close
your eyes if you have to. Let the color reassemble the way it first intended, pixel by pixel,
in the tiny miracle of becoming. The whole sky lives there. It always will.
what there aren't words for yet
What those hummingbirds in your chest whisper when you tell
your first lie. The toothy rumble of the lions that scare
your lungs into giving up. The edges of a leap—half-murmur, half-yell—
the steer your feet away. The guffaw from the shadows tempting you to ignore
your own magnificence. The boisterous roosters pecking holes in your plans. The tire
tracks cajoling you to stay on course. How we search for a plain sentence
to fill the cracks of heartache, for language to pull us, like a ladder,
out of each dark and muddled well. We think thunder is a metaphor. Or the fence
dividing one yard from the next, its own instruction. But the story's yours, you know.
There is no better way to say it. Make the words up as you go.