A Chord

The day sings what is the day’s,
Girls and boys. Sing your own names,

What it means to be, have, think
Of home as a word you own.

At night, the mouths of the young
Sing songs on how to be young

In the dark depths of the young.
Noon sings the song of the way,

The map of the leaves, the deft
Flesh that draws in each long breath,

The new lines linked to a place
That takes up no space in time.

There was a land that could sing
With no need of throat or tongue

Since that was the land made you,
At once soft and sharp. It’s true.