Even when night is a rain of mice undancing

beneath the buttons you keep saving

for stars, you must release

the steps of your own future, and become

the space beyond even your

own perfect ear: trust only

in what refuses

to rest, know only the words that resist

the names of your sure and

secret colors: you know when

the wind is a whistle, you have

made it blow: such ignorance I

was that makes this

here knowledge joy, so far from all

your body was, inside your poetry. <

Michael Shannon Friedman writes and records music for Perdition Media in St. Louis, MO.