Familiar nest in coddle moss inhale the round of comfort
in the folds of your soft neck. Birth is the relief
of a lapsed Calliope: mother muse bears silence marking song.
You must into the pores go, impossibly,
dampen the stormy lea and the vaulting skyward gray.
This is the profound of hope. You are
a small unseen and yet momentous pivot passing into
this. Making way is making space. Nothing in nothing.
So what must I forget? Forget the decay of batteries
and the cracks of plaster for they remember
only themselves pouring into twice-spilled bottles
out from the anger of anticipations
all ultimately augured. Nothing in nothing is something.
And so what I have for you in this brief opening
are words, warm hollow: words: expect nothing.
But embrace everything, demand something impossible
and pause only to remember your direction:
from where, to where, for to remember is to inhabit,
to live within. Make space inside the flying bolt of time.
Grow, then, upon escapes into, brief welcomes into
our cloud-hewn granite: what I share with you is hard as Himalaya
and familiar as home: Our fleeting trust is borne of earth.
I ask of you to ask of hope itself, for we must depart as we arrive:
to bury my body when it flags when it is near or within
sing me into the warmth of our sodden mother peat.
Love me as I love you, through our passing, on
whoever or whatever we are. Love, impossibly love.
Damn it all, if you must. But love. Forge stone into song.
