How the song will lift you
up with just the two
balloons of your lungs
the oxygen rush
and a flame the colour
of sky and sun.
How the song will send you
down, canary, into the pitch
and black of you with only your
vocabulary for a lamp and
a tone halo but you will see
the mineral glitter.
How the song will draw other
aspirants and suspirants
to the high valleys and
deep gulches where you
will circle wagons and post
a sentry with one eye open.
How the song may be a green
silk bag of laughter that spills
over all too easily, causing
the heart to murmur later
if you inhale too much
(just ain’t enough) of it.
98How the stealthy fingers of the song
will reach out and leave
their prints on the locked
gun cabinet or the ingots
buried where X
marks the long lost spot
in you. The grazed elbow,
the split lip, the spilt
milk, the little brown
jug of wit and woe, of
will in you the song
will mop the spill in you.
How the song will wait
no matter how long,
how high the moon
or tower, however dry
the seed or flower —
the song will raise you.