Last Summer's Writing

How many times have I told you
to dance along the bridge
like the water underneath:
if the rock’s too big, go around
or go over the top and churn

How many times have I told you
that I can’t fully express myself -
like a whistling kettle whose
shrill cry belies the boiling
belly and churning steam

How many times have I told you
to look up at the sky
like a monk who
meditates on death and compassion
and circles that you can see only half of.