In Gratitude

For

h,

tiny fire

in the hollow of the throat,

opener of every

hey

hi, how are you,

hello;

chums with

c,

with

t,

shy lover of

s;

there and not

there—never seen,

hardly heard, yet

real as air

fluttering the oak,

holding up the hawk;

the sound

of a yawn, of sleep, of heat,

a match, its quivering

orange flame

turning wood into light,

light into breath;

the sound

of stars if stars

could be heard, perhaps

the sound

of space; life speaking life:

warm air endowed

to hard clay—

a heart, hurt,

a desire to be healed—

the work

of bees stuck in the nubs

of hollyhocks

and columbine, time

to the extent that time

is light, is bright

as the match,

the flame of the sun,

real as the muffled hush

of sleep,

the fluttering oak,

the bee, the silent

oh

in the throat

when a hand is laid

upon the shoulder;

hunger—

the body’s empty cry

for filling, for loving,

for knowing

the intimacy of breath,

of half-breathed words

fragile as the stars:

hollow, hush,

holy.