In all this wind I’m sure you’ll find something empty,
an unsent package or the edge of a glass.
Perhaps you’ll come back cradled,
released to your barest parts. My emptiness
loves yours. Can you hear it? As grace
and distraction, our many selves bend
in order to sing. You’d tell me
the better to be given over
to what approaches slowly, second guesses—
bird’s call in the throat, bone born first
as milk. Mine made lovely for being inborn,
yours that never fills! Vessel to whom
I’m delivered, reckoner and cranium, scholar
of the devoted, what does the heart know
of the space that brushes it? It knows you, of course,
and because it knows it begs. What is devotion
but the animal mind emptying, slowly,
its bowl of needs?
The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.