I Face East (Ars Poetica)

where the light, at this hour, fails 
to encounter my body—body

of cold grass & grammar; body 
of calcium & sound. I emerge

from the room, stripped of all 
urgency: runny with vowels

a e i o u  behind my teeth, like some 
old tide I’ve known forever, come

rushing over my mouth: each 
syllable a chime across a horizon-

line, each syllable nudging 
the scalloped edges of a chestnut

tree—melt a unit into a word 
into a sound. leaves sway

& prickle. I hold the words 
by their roots & quietly, let

them go. they land on another 
boulder, lurk in a body of water,

strum someone else’s tongue. in 
my body, I am spun by a frequency

of vibrations, a vocal chord slipping 
into labor. to speak of prayer

is one thing. to swim 
through it? another.