"Stop Singing"

... the possibility that if I stopped clapping my hands in the void I would notice that I can't hold onto things

and the possibility that if I stopped using my voice I would notice songs that, all around me, sing

looms in weather

lives buried in my days

with all my songs and rhythms going

like the darkness surrounding a flame.

It's what I don't say with my mouth.

It's my mouth open to breathe in.

It's open windows.

Still, I go on and on describing the shape around the thing I want to but cannot name

in song

and though my long life feels busy and full of usefulness and drive,

I will sleep through every single dawn

and those I see I really won't comprehend, though I try,

and I will sing through every single song about the spaces left when we stop singing

and I will sing this with longing.