Speak

I.

First, the language of flares
in June grass, a fragile binary

of here and gone, of here
and gone of every small sweet
openingandclosing
of summer into the here
and gone which we gather
in our palms, our bodies

vanishing
as they vanish, our bodies
returning
as they return.

II.

The boy in the orange hat
runs the airport. The tip of his finger
guides planes
across the glass; his breath
clouds the windowpane

and clouds
appear. Voices
fill the terminal. Here
is the echo without end.
Here is the long distant journey
into the reaching
beyond. Here is the boy
with wings for arms
who steps

out of the glass.

III.

You are my fullness
and my loneliness. You walked
into my spirit where I was homesick
and tending to blades
of grass. Be careless in your wandering.
The morning of your parting I felt my body
turn to dandelions
all hung

with wishes.