THE STORY

for Ish Klein

What still
asserts here
its closed mouth
hum through sun
asserts all of it
sky in the fly
hand folded into grimy hand
or a pimply Egyptian lime
bobbled onto the cold wet grass
to hide amid the early green
evening shadows like a knot
the thing that I love
is letting that hum
flame quietly from inside
as she sleeps
its yellow murmur
slowly unfurling
between her
strange open lips
stranger still for
what they also assert
in their quiet rumble
the story wants to disappear
like a pulled slipknot does
in the hands of someone young
enough to wonder after its going
and it seems she could
free all of herself merely
by the air’s consort
to rise unevenly or
shyly diffuse through
this sunning room
where hum
moves on