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The count, the break, the muscle
the minimalistic memory
that breath takes in language

Inside one syllable, a note explodes
stacking alpha blocks into organized mirrors
systematically painting the world:
this private conversation between God and I,
a fluke of memory triggered by sweet bread,
the color of love in a child’s caress,
this identity between us and them.

If I wanted to just live,
I’d keep my head down and continue walking,
Instead, sounds visit me like angry dogs barking,
fighting leash and nozzle, biting tongue and harness,
to make sentences, songs, and poems
In this new language of mine,
that holds maps mountains and people
thousands of miles wide
and hundreds of antemundane years long
when borders didn’t exist.

More than what’s being said,
I want to know what’s being felt,
So I read street signs smiling.

If language is a translation of grace, then
Knowledge is the continuation of awe.