I could not tell you the story of my living.
Terrific tsunami or closed cabinet of heart.
The wood thrush rings a door closed and
the door lingers off in middle distance.
You play a song for me somewhere whether
I hear or not. I’m no musician and I know
I don’t even listen well; always bowing down
with cloudy visions. But hear the countless
things I do. When I say I love you, I mean it.
When I wake I rise to build another fire,
I make a shifting shape. A containment
that begins with paper and ends with ash.
Liane Tyrrel is a visual artist and poet. Her poems appear in Poetry Northwest, Volume, The Offing, Bear Review, and Four Way Review. She lives with her rescued street dog in Concord, New Hampshire.
Photo by Ben Moreland on Unsplash
