by Michael Catherwood

Move over the earth
to keep from speaking,
to stand where the world
pivots, to look through
cracks in branches where sun
falls like syrup, where choirs
disappear in the evening traffic,
where cars howl and discolor
in lighted song, nothing precise,
but music lifting into the air
liquid as hammers, impossible
shifts in perspective.

You already know
what to do, but just
in case, listen to cardinals
paint across green lawns,
hear the smell of earthworms
alive on the driveway,
the song of decomposing leaves.

Believe for a moment the sky is clear,
so crisp you can see into your first days,
the unnamed happy anniversaries
of your long life where weather
never mattered or maybe galaxies pulsed,
where you could not name the world
but brilliance swam closely, lived
in casual dust and in wordless
breezes outside windows, moved
the world for you in silence.

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