This poem is listening. In that sense it is open. Each word is the surface veil of a tunnel of listening with no end or origin. It receives the things we think we hide: the shine of awkward posture when performing power, the fervid care – too vulnerable to share – hiding under small talk.…

Air smells like cow fields so we know  the snow is coming. After dinner it’s started  so we all go out. My youngest has his tongue  reaching, trying to talk and catch flakes  and sounding cartoonish. We all follow suit  and open up wide. We’re only awake  in this very instant, so we make sure…

Sit yourself kindly down and begin to breathe  with and as the ache of being,  instead of above it. Remember your first questions. Enduring and unanswerable,  they can make you  curiosity again.  Gently, allow your heart to hand you every last piece  of who you truly are.  This is the food you’ve been hungry for.…