Open the way a door opens:
away from me. Like the mouth of a river opening,
softly against the rocks, its own babble enough.
The way a swallow chirps, so open
and sharp against the sky. The way I yawn
when I think of a yawn, instinctive and thus open.
Before I speak I must admit poetry
will not change the world. I entreat an opening
without force. In the face of such suffering,
I name: I can only own my open
mouth and the deed to my own thinking.
I think myself alive and so I am. So I open
against authority, to think I matter. O,
with three names in my mouth, I open.
