I’ve always thought these should’ve been answered for me
Until I confessed I hadn’t said anything
And then left the sanctuary
To go find another.

There are nights I can speak all the words I need to say,
And there are nights I’ve forgotten.
Nights I shoo away.
Sit-in-the-chair-and-stare-at-the-wall-beyond-the-desk nights.

These whispers have plucked leaves from trees.
They’ve grown into hands that baked bread and fruit into something tempting,
Steadied feathered ballerinas bent in some grand plié,
And held a fist to the face of principalities shouting, “What’s hidden must be seen!”

Several times I’ve preferred virtue-signaling sardoodledom
To real conversation and eye contact.
And, I’ve spent half my life doing that
More often than not.

I have written, texted, spoken—
Used any media available to me—
To try to say what I thought I had to say,
Instead of just pointing to where it hurt.

It doesn’t work any better leaning on my knees.
I prefer cobra pose with feet up, tapping behind me,
Or walking at night
Just before sleeping.

Let it all be so.
Let dreams turn to ribboned-presents.
Let thoughts upend realities.
And, come, make me the instrument.