The poet Moses knew how God speaks

in a language of gestures, without words

like abandoned dogs,  lost tourists

talk with bodies, talk with eyes.

To find the average we add

and divide everything by everything

each desire, fear, laugh, love

rainlight,  seaharbor,  streetdoor.

And what gesture

I ask you

is the homeless boy

deep shadows in his eyes?

What sign the teenage mother

asking for coins, hard in her hand

a key in her pocket

a place she can clean and lock?

And at the airport, the young man without a leg, half an arm

who learns to accept favors while navigating a body;

it used to be his before this war

the chain around his neck still shining in the morning sun?

Our world has become a dangerous question

where women hide their smiles and pleasures

stand, wait, follow orders, their protests lame

blind to the security line, no matter how slow, how tedious.

Since you left, I too know the look of that lonely language

over our house, a white bird swoops

a bird I never saw before—

clear eye, sharp beak, straight aim.