Gleaning

Gleaning for her voice
every wrinkle - every old man
walking - away is my memory
All I know you have - hearing
her where she was not
scattered - my feet was there - always
a place that was not - is
collage - Oh your're impossible in
my body - wood for word - you
created what created language
your bent whispers - what hands
do - passing through you


This poem comes back to me often and always showing me the infinity of it's meaning - it's shifting images not dependent on images and agreements of word meaning - for me the poem has a history of movement following how meaning shifts - it looks to it's origin - it is a poem in love with that something solid seeing it's own dance and freedom - can language be free like voice?