Letter to You on Breaking My Silence

As we step out into the rain
           sheened roads, I want to say,
it’s not fair a woman can be seen 
           dancing in her backyard, but not 
a man still I wear my quiet song 
            like a bridle. Levine stopped reading 
poems once he began to memorize 
            them, I say to break the silence
as all the little-lamps specter 
            the curtains through the neighbors’ 
windows. You take my hand 
            and lead us to the grassy side 
of the road where the shy black horses 
            stare back. How we want the words 
to make them follow us. It’s language
            that makes us crazy, isn’t it? 
I can’t memorize poems. I can’t 
            hold music with my hands,
but look how after the truck passes
            all the brush along the road
lifts and sways then grows still 
            beside these trees falling apart 
like me, but not all falls are fatal, 
            and how pretty the field in its yellow 
armor, and how beautiful it is to know 
            the ending, so I can take my eyes
from the page to look at you when I say, 
            it’s not fair you can’t break 
my silence like a horse, and it’s not 
            fair that I turn my dead into lights, 
turn the wind into a chorus and dress 
            the field in my armor, but how 
hard it is to turn these words into song 
            with this bit in my mouth.