I stretch the shortcut days with sound
sashaying to the wind’s largesse,
humming to bee buzz and the hoots,
my lonely intervals, the hour’s echo,
something understood; maybe
this world sorrow will leave off
but not yet, not here. I can’t stop
crying. It is so starched out here,
low notes and woodsmoke,
my old stutter returning.
I can’t remember how to reach
the end of my own sentences
because they keep tuning
and retuning the beginning sense
as if I may never glide another tone
into the rhythm of my spine
holding words up, grinding a design.
Such surplus there is already.