does it matter
what name
you gave it--
whose name
you whispered
was never
the one
you were calling
you came
home, to find
the house was empty
--was gone
and going out
you found
the world was an empty
house
---
the only song
recognized
is your fingers stretched
on the taut strung seconds
the only ear
unfolds, dumb, in the curling flesh
the song, the ear
and no listener
---
the measures pass
your fingers
unravel, unbound
and to comfort them
you sing the memory
of the bones boldly still
of tendons wound ecstatic
of the skin's slow and wondering
awareness of glory
and you sing the ear
but your voice is a hand
outstretched
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