It speaks where your world is:
the bending moan of a train speeding off,
your mother’s whistling in the kitchen.
It moves in the stories unknown to you,
the ones that escape your possession:
a war removed from you by decades,
a shrub blossoming in another country,
a letter unanswered.
It rises too, by the thousands,
from men and women lush with words,
here and there releasing their bodies
to a new language, a new
eloquence for ways of living
It occupies song and silence,
the interstices from breath to breath.
It is born of thought aching or joyous,
of the quickening verb that is you.