the possibility that if I stopped clapping my hands in the void I would notice that I can't hold on to 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 can not 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 will not understand though I try I will sing through every single song about the spaces left when we stop singing and I will sing this with longing.