And I wince
at being introduced
as “this is our
secretary….”
me trying to smile
and play dumb
eyes darting nervously
trying to grasp the
river behind
the window (I have become
a life of river view and third
floor skyline
view)
“This is our
poet whose arms grow
feathers in the night,
whose heart grows
to be the size of
each room it
inhabits, beating against
everything in its
midst, whose eyes
move across
the sky as the
sparkling clouds do
whose breast rushes
and dives, slows
and stills like
the river”