Canted bone poem

When the wide world was still
to be defined by a closed mouth
you’d gather to yourself
hours scattered
in the sun’s dry heat
wishing to prise the lips
of a single line open
              prise the flow of time apart

How deeply wrong were your movements
like a sleepwalker’s sleeping awake
sleepwalking a wake—sleepworlding
the curved mirror of the page
touching up the backbone of stars

Poems grow in the dark, trace
the descent of sound
into silence

This is a song of silence

This is the sound of the bone
breaking through the skin
of a slow waisting

This is the sound of your breath
lasting through
like a mantra

Indigo moon shade
white gardenias
sun bleached hair
the midnight swell
surf sheer gossamer
mood violet
singing mother of pearl

No, it isn’t merely the wind
whistling in your ears

            It is that faraway inside
your head—a whole world
drumming in time drumming
on some utter membrane
holding yourself
             holding yourself aloft
wings beating about nothing