Delphi wishes to translate
from muse to person,
from thought to flesh.What novel character
wouldn’t want to write
their own lines, make
a racket, a stink, a life real
entering the field of time.I’d like to show her
how to part the curtain
behind my eyes, but
that well worn path of light
flows in. So, somehow,
she needs to work her way
to my breath and traverse
the tumble of air
that goes both in and out.Yes, that is it. Breath.
Like God placed into the ash
and dust. Mine into
ink and page.