Again this week, an older poem:
Speaking In Tongues
I try to find a heaven in my dreams,
some cloudy place where you are.
How can it still be morning, when
I have been out here for so long?
I am in a house I have come back to.
Something is missing or broken.
Looking everywhere, looking everywhere,
I am caught in a thickness of fear.
I make a nest in my hands of torn
cloth, and a bird settles into it.
Snow falls from a bright sky, as if the moon
were shedding ashes of its own crisp light.
I want to talk with you one more time.
If there was bitterness, it’s gone now.