It was an accident of faith, a bird
crying the night away, and I could tell
it wasn’t mine to keep, a lying word
that wasn’t mine this time, a slimy well
of words that multiplied, a Sunday bell
I wanted for my house, to keep them close.
It was a healing word, a healing dose.
Or so I hoped. I tried to climb the fence
between imagination and the day,
to gather atoms in the present tense,
tornado warnings swept away, they say,
for now, the now I search for, my ballet,
livelier than storms or sun or any other
rocky alerts and minutes to discover.