August 29, 2023

willing

What is this body? What is this neck, and these teeth, and this hunger?
What is this sound (do you hear it?) coming as if from some deranged creature 
deep in the green, moving toward the honeyed branches, mouth 
drawing its bow on a violin of fruit, then here at last, drunk and cleansed 
by sweetness. Here, struck into song, and released. Who knows the distance
or purpose of flight exactly? Who knows anything of the current, or the risk 
of staying still, or the risk of leaving, or the risk of silence or chatter, or 
the risk of losing the way, which is always happening. But what else is there?
Aren’t we the beautiful disaster we are always on the verge of making?
Why would a heart be willing to break, if not for this?