what did I see to be except myself
i made it up
here on this bridge between
starshine and clay
from Lucille Clifton's poem, won't you celebrate with me
Sometimes the urge to joke to be offhand is not right, too easy.
Deflection is not honest.
I am struggling.
If I were a pray-er the verb not the noun I'd be on my knees.
If I were a prayer the noun not the verb, you could write me down in tiny script.
a slip of paper in a bottle floating, a bit of fuzz a seed,
your wish, blur, blow.