Dear instructor,
tonight I am
word poor and so unchained
and the world seated
could be
sensed partially
your back to it my looking away
trace of a cry in the air
accumulating from afar
a clarity of means
because
entrenched in beloved
semblance
to climb into the given as
music or the simplest conduct—
touching the threshold
migrating
serene as matter or
untouched
traveling—the wind—
made only for space
perceived
as elegy’s long flight.
And so
darkening chanced over the neck
the shoulder’s ache
not referral to the outside
having not yet aspired
darkening yet
the test or turn savored
the instance leaning forward
to hear
a song of some duration
shelter of what is not said
chanced, here and there, over, darkening—
splendid matter erased.
Could look through to the voice—
could look to find where the voice—
have you a word,
dear instructor, for this?