I can’t write all day
about the way the wind chimes make me feel
how a pomegranate seed pops: ruby juice to tart your tongue
or how a star must roar through space as it falls.
I can’t sing very loud
about chains about my wrists or feet,
that feeling at the end of a long day: your spine stretching on bed
or silvery water wetting a parched mouth.
I can’t tell stories all day about
buzz bomb alley and ice shearing off frozen Aleutian walls,
the day the earth’s weeping wasn’t enough
or the grasp of a dying man’s paper skin hand.
I can love hopelessly
lifting, croaking shingles from rain carried by gales across the yard,
the colors the sky splashes around as the sun wanders away,
and meeting eyes with someone with whom I’ll never speak and seeing an entire world.