Strike

Rather than telling you (, oh, ode)
the two stories about
     idealism, or the three about
moonlight
perhaps this right here (now, see here) is the time for a story about
hands:
the hands I will write them for,
or would
write them for, or about the space
my hands reach across
to outline my excuse across some face (same thing, really),
some excuse,
some space

And this is
my ode

to the bruise of many colors blooming on my calf
struck where by who-knows-what on my face-first way into the pavement,
oh, to my face-first journey into the pavement where I
gained me some small wounds packed dark with sweet sand, oh
Pacific
oh bloody Pacific trickle down my shins

to the whetted appetite of my mouth for the language of my friend's grandparents, or
to HUNGER (for and from)
the hold of its
sounds in my mouth, the fine arched feet of its sounds in my air and its
sound against the walls of my mouth, those lean new syllables,

voglia, via, volare
...

which I cannot, if you cannot tell, shout loudly enough from behind my screen, my hunger cannot
shout loud enough for the loving of some syllables and is hunger,  
love is, is?

to also the grace by which my voice is insufficient, to the things for which it is insufficient, to this screen
and the others on other sides, to the words which I as yet by no definition have,
to those words, somehow anterior to (how many occasions of?) their necessity,

to the existent yet as-yet unknown, with apology
for my need,
for the rude maybe misshaping strength
of faith, and hope, and need