grammatolatry:

“Because I mistrust my head & hands, because I know salt tinctures my songs, I tried hard not to touch you even as I pulled you into my arms. Seasons sprouted & went to seed as we circled the dance with silver cat bells tied to our feet. Now, kissing you, I am the archheir of second chances. Because I know twelve ways to be wrong & two to be good, I was wounded by the final question in the cave, left side of the spirit level’s quiver. I didn’t want to hug you into a cross, but I’m here to be measured down to each numbered bone. A trembling runs through what pulls us to the blood knot. We hold hands & laugh in the East Village as midnight autumn shakes the smoke of the Chicago B.L.U.E.S. club from our clothes, & you say I make you happy & sad. For years I stopped my hands in midair, knowing fire at the root stem of yes. I say your name, & another dies in my mouth because I know how to plead till a breeze erases the devil’s footprints, because I crave something to sing the blues about. Look, I only want to hold you this way: a bundle of wild orchids broken at the wet seam of memory & manna.”

—

Yusef Komunyakaa, Canticle (via yesyes)