Irresistible Contentment
I am talking my way back to the poem’s turn
and where it might lie outside my skirted body,
a corded place where bluish sky paints my attention,
and empties itself into a golden silence—
without talk or sound. Phrases now feel
perversely sentient and yet devilishly
wrong. Every night I talk with the hope
that speech itself will burn me
its one true alphabet.