Sometimes I open the small chamber of wonder

Sometimes I take my place in the order of things but

there is already an altar for secrets with knots and teeth.

I used to make sure to include in my life

people desperate with wonder:

yes or no: are you singing to the dogwoods?

do your dandelions shimmer in the ocher afternoon?

Now I collect people with oozing wounds:

yes or no: is your skin clammy and grey,

your pulse thready, your voice now a nod?

We are a club with no name

and a password that fogs

through empty rooms

I am not on fire. This is not a crisis.

This is just the ordinary hazard

of a window, like a mind, open.

Now the shadows are shifting.

Sitting quietly has signaled the sparrows

trying to fly. In this opening, a wing

lifts with a leash of light and

we study the glistening

with envy and awe.

— Drew Myron

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