had to come from
something
that itself was once
very close
to nothing.
What would it be like
to be that first thing—
parentless
and humble,
uncalled
by another, and yet
suddenly all
at once, there
to discover
the nuts
and bolts of loving,
the long and short
of leaving?
*
Ashes to ashes,
dust to dust,
and in between,
oneness (read:
aloneness)
with experience.
*
It's good, now
that things are beginning
to stir all around me—
shadows
of dull bulbs, flickers
of birds' wings—
that way, I don't
have to be
the one to sing;
I can be silent
and still
more profoundly.
