Whenever I touch him
around my shell.
He says no, no,
to the great descent
to hands locked in the wind,
on pillow or sheets.
October sun beating on my covered spine
So many walls erected in the name of home
He talks of black birds glowing
or running into webs as wide
as a tree’s open arms.
Even attempting to climb the perilous cliff,
I am not afraid of falling.
The sensual rhythms of this lonely morning
devour me, reconciled
to my private chamber, suspended.
Far under the cliff, the gulls
are united with the ocean, as that
deep blue speckled-white
beckons me to its bed.
Wolves and warriors are rooted to the hunt.
I am rooted to this risk, edge-clinging,
fated to ultimately rest
in the body of a miracle.
There are miles below and miles above,
awakening sounds of insects burrowing,
of swallows nest-emerging –
a holy vapour all around that fills
the void with necessity.