In the far away

In the far away, something close,
the electrified matter of touch,
how it runs from skin to bone
and sits in your being,
what love there is in human hands.

The cool of the screened porch,
outside inside, bowls in our laps,
peas still warm from the garden
so many to shell, so much light
in that sinking time of day.

The mockingbird’s back–
who shall I be for you
any everything, even not bird,
and who shall you be–
for me? All I am is sound.

 

 

 

And now it is

And now it is. You are who.
You are not who you are.
You are who you are not.
We are out reaching our touch.
We are who you. Yes, true.
Everybody is knowing.
We know every body. When is
our seahorse and our spinster?
We get in there and squeeze.
We engineer. We made the moon.
The daily do deemed.
The creep in the ceiling. Skin.
Even your atomic weight. Vote.
Our bomb parade smacks the book.
Our armored interface a maze.
Our retrograde clock out.
Our radiation is an open door.
And our pen’s a knife.