Spark

Walk against the wind, thin
spit though it double-turns onto your chin.
Kick the snow to a tiny tornado
and knock your knees against the trembling.

Belly-flop into the half-formed thing
though these December days weigh still and gray
and the televangelists are still proselytizing.
Bubble to the top of the rising dough.

Light a match to the classifieds
until the want ads burn staccato.
Pennies a word for paper and ink
(a profound reticence to think)
as dreams of the mine and yours combine:
light the pop-crack fire, kindling.

In the in-between dawn under right and wrong,
catch the insect by the God-smacked wing.
Start the spark in this muscle-bound heart.
Fill the space between your teeth with everything.