I know this bone
a white handhold
lost in
a black, tar sea.
The full moon
swims against
the night water-
I curl my fingers
through it
and it breaks.
I put my hand
around the moon-
the whole one that
swims against
the sky
and
imagine
its smooth, orb
weight – a pebble
in my palm.
I don’t dare
touch the bone-
the bone so close
I can smell it.
If I curled
my hand
around its
death white
grip
would it break
apart or
would I?
I saw the thread,
the pouring liquid
of life
through rivers
through the veins
of stars
and white
mountain peaks.
All spoke this song.
The gold fire
of the sun
touches the face
of the moon
and turns milky
white
before touching
my own face.
The veins of a stone
in my veins.
This same song
this rolling thread-
my heart beats with
the stone song
with river-blood
with sky vastness
and with the
changing brightness
of the sun.
I saw this thread
and lost my own face,
no longer apart from
the world.
