by Becki

steel rained-on panes of windows mute a light

and never blink or wink their eyes for me
not when the bus is moving not when the blinds are down
not when there is silence not when there is
they are whispering not faith not truth maybe hope but not reasons for
against the branches of trees that talk not to me but to each other

won't you come back won't you come won't you ? this is a song
that does that does not twist truth into faith or pain or answers for
that's the one I'm looking for that's the one I that's the one I'm hearing now
so those are the drums that beat that move that win me by virtue of proximity
and turn me into belly dancing woman or or prophet born too late or someone's son

what I wonder inside the bones of broken hours takes me home at night
wakes me up at eight or seven makes tea at ten answers voices
inside of telephones reads white screen words but never answers itself
never turns the light on never flashes into the kind of truth
I try to live through rolling days or sing for

and so the underbellies of the fractured shards of my tall tales gather dust and rosebuds
where no one may where I may not where the door isn't open to friends or strangers
that's my mind holding its own keys that's a closet in a church in a foreign land
that's memory and left-over revelation that's not enough to keep telling
not enough to wrap around a cold day or a sprain or a scrap of joy

But the rain today is unusual and the sun knows it, and this is a relative of a kind of truth:
my windows are clean ones, and usually open to -- open for -- well, not closed anyway.
now I wonder where you come into this equation where truth comes where courage
to open the door comes from or goes when I leave it closed or cracked
where I go from there where we go when we can
when a road opens up or when we see the right light or sky