What I say 
when I sense
Anima underfoot:

“Come up
and love me.”

What I say to Cecil Taylor:

“I wish I could scale cliffs
as nimbly as that.  How do you see
the micro-holds you move between
in such tiny increments of just-in-time?”

What I say
when the guitar
is horrible in my hands:

“Whether it is you or me,
I am sorry.”

What I say to my pen,
keyboard, paper, screen:

“God said so.  It’s so,
I am sure, even as I shiver
here with you.”

What I say to the air
on my front porch:

“Won’t you come in?  There’s
beer.  There’s song.  There’s 
air I’d like you to meet.”

What I say to myself,
always, when presence
seizes me, when I am alone
and caught in alone, when I am
clasped close to a chest
imbued with a Krupa pulse
or to the ribs of Indonesia
come East to present themselves
at the court of honor and understanding —
the kecak men whooshing and clattering
a charm of rope looped around
what I fail to understand:

“Yes.”