We stretch out on our backs –
Quilt-less, quill-less,
No paper, no typewriter –
Forever comparing earth
With sky.

One would say we’ve an endless
Supply of material:
We have our night, our grass,
Our shooting stars,
Our dirt and worms, their appetites,
The clouds and all their ways of
being clouds,
The roots of trees, the far-off birds,
The sound of air, which is not the sound
of breath.

The stillness of our breath may be compared
To the stillness of our hearts
Hearts that skip beats like dusty old records
More often than not.
What verse can prop us up again
On legs of bone and blood and skin?