Coming to Place
I trembled upon the sinks of the void, the washing away. My identity flowered beside a wheelbarrow my father drew. Stones had their names, I had mine and was equally secretive. Houses glistened and gave no clue to invisible natures which might stand them up when our backs were turned. No choirs sang out of clouds at high noon. The void was an absolute bore. It was grizzled by gravity, held a flower between its teeth but would not bite. Yet identity, she was my maiden at night sneaking through unlocked doors. Awake, I awaited her coming. She crept into my bed, her breath like the things she ate, the small things, the dates and the earth inside, the fingers.