There is more to the action
than the way a tongue moves; the way it
approaches or retreats from teeth, or the manner
of lips shaping themselves first as sly, sunlit maid
and then as aching, grieving mother.
The chords thrum as breath weaves a wand
and turns into sound - the voice in the dark
catches light eyes cannot see.
Pause and listen to the tone; never the words,
the words
are the illusion, the packaging.
Imagine the world
as small as a heartbeat, as large
as a mind.
In the room, or out and about,
several companions lay down
or move around, breathe
their thoughts into a conversation
that is let loose…
It travels into a space
none of them expected -
not even the finest of poets -
the way a dance becomes something so much more
than a body moving from place to place.
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