Vasae Lynn

Hidden Talent
I try to thinkof things to think
that escape meat ordinary times
to be touched by things, carried off, taken:
leaf ballerina in a whooshing pirouette downthe amberlit corridor of adoration
to fold gracefully, to let go as sparrows hold to nothing when they lift, hanging their cupboard wings wide
to greet the hot winds of change,a sunflower bobbing its face
to forget the meaning of uncomfortable and crumple like a snoring, silk sloth
to swagger vagabondish, outlandishly drunk on hope
to throw things awaylike seed. Thud
Sometimes we existin worlds too small to hold us.
Friendships that cannot change,because friends cannot acceptthat you have changed,and so they die.
The lengthening list of to-do’sflows like a river of blood,taking essence away,dissipating intention into fog.
Then, there is the book you step into,your true life, a folded forestwhose pages flutterwhen you slow down enoughto breathe into them.
There, small gestureshold the scope of emotion.Where a tea kettle can expandinto an articulation of silence,by setting it on the counterwith a muffled thud.