i am so very rusty at this.

[godream]

I'm cross-legged on my bed
back straight and self-conscious
like the first-time teacher walking by in class
but this isn't class. Lie down. Relax clutch. Breathe.

[In those periods, I'm wrong already:
you won't punctuate. You don't want me to need it. It's okay. I'm doing this for myself.]

I lean into the
enjambment, bank the turn, breathe the whistle of wind.
Maybe I should slow down -- would you slow down?

Steeling myself
to relax, I dictate
you in strict meter and hushed tones.

It's okay.
Nobody past the door will hear.

I interpret. I embellish.
I pulse. I build.
I sing your rhythm.

In the last syllable,
I sigh, completed,
alone
but closer to (understanding) you.


This is a memory two years stale drawn sideways because halfway through writing I looked at it and saw something else. feedback is (as always) welcome.