Tremors

Think of shock. Or fright. Or a familialsomething a grandparent left behind,a lost valise on the Orient Express,while your hand keeps closing on air,and if it grips anything like a glass ofChardonnay it will spill comfort, it willabhor inebriation, and this vibration inthe knees, this shaky road to Valdeztakes you far from the quakes of Nguluor Miyako, where the language of temblorsis a seism of tongue, and the foreshock ofwords to come. But why should the brainrattle, the spine waver its tree along theslope of your body? Your footprints don'tline up. Your chin rocks side to side, sinceit can't make up your mind: go or stay?There'll be no ash coming down the sky,or bedroom wall collapsing. You won'tneed a rod protruding from the top ofyour head, a sizzle traveling up and down.Be still. Be without need. Be nothing.