VII

Someday I will open my heart to the
angels of the winds, the way when I
approach a subway station the warm
wind's pressure opens up the door.
I will enter, and they will pour
their sly secrets into my soul
until the brim is moist, lush
silent voices like the sound of
pearls on velvet, small sounds like
fur alive with static. So soft, so
cunning will be their clear, inhuman
whispering that I won't hear, listening
and listening to my silent body sing.