Gesturing, She Sings

Feelings want to live in us.
It's pressurized life
that pulls meaning to itself

like a blanket. Sung in the
immensity of that plushness,
that coccoon. Here you're you;
your own mirror.

All the feelings do this
but it's only sadness that gestures.
She shows me mountaintops.
She shows me

landscapes, and the ruins:
the dead leaves going to earth.
She lights up the peeling paint

and the jet streams of time. She
balloons out the call of the keening bel
to the hills, the mountains
where music ventures sometimes,
our shy duet, quiet, but
above the wind somehow.

Anger only choked me out. And
jealousy? 
He only even burned flesh, laid his
monstrous eggs, metastasized.
And now everything's engulfed:
everything pushing everything with
shaking, tense hands.

But sadness saved me, for
jealousy of the everything was nothing
but the raft on the river, the
continental plate on the magma,
the pinprick, the reification

of the longing. And there sadness
had the jump on jealousy. Forever
and always.

And so, wanting balloons out into the world,
opened like tree branches to others,
to us, to the things we build.
And that is enough.