The Still Time

I know there is still time - time for the hands to open, for the bones of them to be filled by those failed harvests of want, the bread imagined of the days of not having. Now that the fear has been rummaged down to its husk, and the wind blowing the flesh away translates itself into flesh and the flesh gives itself in its reveries to the wind. I remember those summer nights when I was young and empty, when I lay through the darkness wanting, wanting, knowing I would have nothing of anything I wanted - that total craving that hollows the heart out irreversibly. So it surprises me now to hear the steps of my life following me - so much of it gone it returns, everything that drove me crazy comes back, blessing the misery of each step it took me into the world; as though a prayer had ended and the bit of changed air between the palms goes free to become the glitter on some common thing that inexplicably shines. And the old voice, which once made its broken-off, choked, parrot-incoherences, speaks again, this time on the palatum cordis this time saying there is time, still time, for one who can groan to sing, for one who can sing to be healed. - - - Ah, lovely.