Throats
by Tim McCarthy
1. Kinds of us: An Invocation
The heart of any human
is not merely a heart.
It is a vesper’s pulse of wolves’ throats
stretched high to blend with moon silver
as they point at the darkness
to which all stars belong.
The pack beats bright evening light
back down onto grass and stone
as tree and bush
sing one in or call two out
and sight and vibration sink deep
into the black earth.
Who would not kneel
before this ocean of Psalms
crashing against the silence
of your hand as it reaches out
to touch those throats?
And swimming beneath each river
of fir, feathers, scales, or skin,
is a kind of us we can never know
but only love
knowing
a human heart
is not only human.
Gyroscope Review 44
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