Twenty-One Ways to Birth a Heart

Today is a day for giving up;
tomorrow, for whatever comes after dying.
No need for clichés about
love and courage and soul
and the faith we have
in the nature of stars.
No, today is a day for human
no-nature,
yellow and orange and red—
the feel of fallen leaves on naked skin.

Somewhere in the branches of rain
there is a feathered song

signifying nothing but Wren;

so too, you,
in your nudity.
Stripped down of meaning
like milkweed on the wind,
impregnating the air
with your presence.

There are at least twenty-one ways
to sing whatever name
you will have on your lips tomorrow;
nine of them sound identical to silence,
and the rest
well, there’s no need, yet, to go into that…