What makes you tender: write that down. What holds you still, a small bird in the palm, or a hare in the tall grass? What spurs you to leap, over the fields, into the present? What makes you whole, like an egg before the spoon taps on your shell? What makes you sing, here in the coalmine, you canary, you bright yellow thing, blazing in the dark, if only in the imagination, hidden and whole and yellow like a yolk in the dark interior of its holding place? Sing to me, sing right under my heart, where it is darkest, folded over by bone and flesh, skin and clothes, sing to me, bring me home.





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