Poem Without a Title

A single word can shimmer and rise off the page like a beam of symbolic light, a bulb of glowing meaning; any word you have held dear or given, lives a new life the size of two worlds. The kind that you carried with you over the cliff...the kind that helped you up. The kind that when you go away, the wind from it blows the clocks back to striking the same hour. The kind that makes perfume open its eyes to you. The kind whose letters become a bird. The kind that opens the window and dances towards immortality. The kind that leaves you sitting there like a lunatic, raving, standing on your head, living in three and four places at once. The kind that you cannot accommodate and cannot deny. The kind that passes fear from man to man unknowing, as one leaf passes its sudder to another...all at once, the whole tree is trembling. The kind that makes you remember what you almost heard.

At night, wrapped in a bed of ashes, I remember that I am falling, but somebody else has just arrived. Somebody else is writing this, letting the wild and the domestic combine, forming a dawn made of all the air I ever breathed...arriving late and on time.

I have heard the locks close, and the keys hang in the sky...leaving a poem this time without a title, in the wake of a beautiful, beautiful storm.