I dreamt my words streamed up my legs. Think reverse tears.
After all these years, I shouldn’t be surprised.
True language comes from somewhere deep, the pools
below speech. Dark, wet places. Where things drip.
From under stones too, like the ones around my mailbox,
baking like potatoes as we glide around the sun,
warm and rough and real in my wrinkled hands, a note
from when I was a boy and the table opened wide.