Prayer (also a notapoem)

full circle, kagogo

A coward I once knew, namely me, i, or it, once fell asleep silently and woke up again as though nothing had happened when clearly everything had (and was and would again)- even at that moment a bird had heard a song it loved and followed his (my) mother whistling Brahms (who was not aware of the waltz from the 3rd symphony she was whistling)(i, me, it: her son, smiled).

In my sleep a lover hooded in night had replaced the constellations in my eyes and my hands awoke having been held by (my) solitary dreams of paired universes which are the only consolations to night's heavy burden I wear alone; __for love, warm breath on naked nightskin, and tangled limbs I thankyou- and I awaken knowing rocks are fallible (thankyou): there are liars amongst them, and the misinformed, and I know one absolute thing to teach my unborn-loved child: desert rocks were once beach sand baby feet yelped at (back when baby feet were still really roses), and beach sand were twice stars and once the tooth of a shepherd that once kissed a calf and was banished to lie besides a river and count the seconds (leaves falling) till autumn- and since this is all unabsolutely true, the truest thing is the maker of eyelashes (once tinsel) and rocks (once spaceships) and breasts (still heaven) ie namely: whatever-by-any-other-name-is-still (God) who kisses us infinitely with Gravity's heavy lips (heaviest at night when I, starfish at last, turn and see the spaces between my only-four-lonely limbs);

and this bird once flew into a cloud and emerged wet (and stole the rain from me, I), and twice fell in love (and fell) and landed in humanity's definition and smiled at the frailty of a dozen dictionaries, and my mother once cried herself to sleep about me, and once fell asleep proud, and will never know just where she heard this melody (in the car my dear), and now her daughter laughs and we all smile (bird, sun, and the four floor-bound books that can see us included),

My palms speak: sshhh... our lines are unfathered futures, y = mx + c, everytime you touch a piano, woman, or glass of tea, 16 miracles escape your fingertips. An unborn father (me, I, it) waits impatiently to tell his unborn-loved child (you): "all infinity's not the miracle; lives lead nowhere but (here); this second surpasses a redwood's lifetime (is the miracle!)"; and mostly: your love is what distinguishes you from sand, and all else is sand (not-you), and whatever-by-any-other-name-is-still wants nothing else from you.