Poetry

The song unthreading from the sky with its unwoven ends trailing along the contours of the earth, wrapping around spaces of rhythm, the faithful cadence of days, the frenetic troubles of lost graces reweaving unseen. It is the song still singing under the din, after we met and talked and danced and fell asleep with the hum behind our eyelids. Sweat cooling on the skin and evaporating into the song’s drifting tassels, remembrance and dreaming; the music back to home where every strange land invites me into the familiar threshold of my own voice.