The possibility that if I stopped clapping My hands in the void I would notice that I can't hold on to things And The possibility that if I stopped using my voice I would notice songs that, all around me, sing Looms in weather, Lives buried in my days, With all my songs and rhythms going like The darkness surrounding a flame. It's what I don't say with my mouth. It's my mouth open To breathe in. It's open windows. Still, I go on and on describing the shape Around the thing I want to but can not name, In song And, though my long life feels busy And full of usefulness and drive, I will sleep through every single dawn And those I see I will not understand though I try I will sing through every single song About the spaces left when we stop singing And I will sing this With longing.