For Studs Terkel

Her voice shifts as if it were light, 
from chalk to parchment to oil.
I think of the sun this morning, 
how many knives were flashed 
through black, compliant trees; 
now she has aged it with her singing, 
turned it to milk thinned with water, 
a poor people's sun, enough 
knowledge to go around.

I want to dance, 
to bend as gradually as a flower, 
release a ball in slow motion 
to follow in the marvelous path 
of an unfolding jet streak, 
love’s expansive finger 
across the cheek of the sky.
“Heaven, I'm in heaven…”

The foolish old songs were right,
the heart does, actually, ache 
from trying to push beyond 
itself, this room, the world, 
all that can be imagined,
space is not enough space 
for it sudden immensity…

I am not what you think
This is not what I wanted

Desire has no object, it simply happens, 
rises, and float, lighter than air—
but she knows that. Her voice scrapes 
against the innocent words of the song; 
tomorrow is something she remembers.