Stop Singing

the possibility that if I stopped clapping
 my hands in the void
 I would notice that I can't hold on to things
 and
 the possibility that if I stopped using my voice
 I would notice songs that, all around me, sing
 looms in weather,
 lives buried in my days,
 with all my songs and rhythms going like
 the darkness surrounding a flame.
 It's what I don't say with my mouth.
 It's my mouth open
 to breathe in.
 It's open windows.
 Still, I go on and on describing the shape
 around the thing I want to but can not name,
 in song
 and, though my long life feels busy
 and full of usefulness and drive,
 I will sleep through every single dawn
 and those I see I will not understand though I try
 I will sing through every single song
 about the spaces left when we stop singing
 and I will sing this
 with longing.