The birds of the hands:
feathery fingers, arms
arched in parentheses.
Breathing in rhythm,
a forest of branches,
a pod of dolphins,
steel-spined camels:
“we can be anything.”
The body a playground:
swings, loops, slides
winged postures like stars
yoga dance as of language
freed from stodgy syntax.
Breath crests; wave
spills its liquid silver.
Toes sculpt commas,
punctuate the sentence’s
coiled energy, verb-driven
to the quiet pool of rest,
curled in balls like children.
Stillness hushes
eloquence: sweet period.
