It is no metaphor to say you move the earth by singing.
You inhale the wind, the dust. You exhale water
vapors that, on certain cold-snap nights, form clouds
which rise and unfold outward in the darkness.
Your tune illuminates the Unlit City, reverberates
down the open throats, knits sinew onto dead bones.
You tear a part in the Badlands when you strike
a high, sustained E sharp. A coyote confuses
your voice and the moonlight. A coyote howls out
the hour in reply to your resonant song. You’re home
in the Badlands, where the air shimmers,
where the earth’s incisors tear holes in the night sky.
You cry out to kindrid spirits, of which I am not one.
I will not try to compete with the coyote or your voice.
I acknowledge that this is your place. I do not belong here.
I’m sorry. I tried to sit still. I tried to rest here. I tried.
