Song, I am

I am late,

again,

but worth waiting for

I be the god in the glottal stop

that can stop traffic,

put out streetlights in my sleep.

I am the cello-waisted

baritone under your breath,

makes the knees of bees

quiver in their hives,

Honey

I am the haze in Monet’s gaze,

a cat purring on your

sacred sacrum

while you dream

of roots reaching down to trace

the fractal weave of leaves,

the bloom of your lungs, singing,

bringing the be to becoming,

thrumming

the strings of all those lost pianos

in Iowa fields, humming

a sea of middle-C’s

I am the sea change and return

I am the conclusion, foregone,

the forlorn beginning

of beginning again,

and again, a wren

wriggling the first worm

under her gibbous moon

the gibbon grinning

with the inside joke of every punch-

line

saying,

not so bad, baby,

not too late:

you
were worth
waiting for