Stop Singing

the possibility that if I stopped clapping
my hands in the void
I would notice that I can't hold on to things
and
the possibility that if I stopped using my voice
I would notice songs that, all around me, sing
looms in weather,
lives buried in my days,
with all my songs and rhythms going like
the darkness surrounding a flame.
It's what I don't say with my mouth.
It's my mouth open
to breathe in.
It's open windows.
Still, I go on and on describing the shape
around the thing I want to but can not name,
in song
and, though my long life feels busy
and full of usefulness and drive,
I will sleep through every single dawn
and those I see I will not understand though I try
I will sing through every single song
about the spaces left when we stop singing
and I will sing this
with longing.