The carpet smells sort of sour and plastic
where I lay, sinking further and further
into it. Until face-up, on the other side, air
piercing like first breath after snowfall. I'm
rooted like the Washington Monument is moored
by bright eyes on a class field trip. The chaperone
gleams grayly in the dusk, telling us:
We belong to the ground. We walk
because living is a loan. We are
borrowed forms, a generous leaping
of dirt—the farts of stars
bales of sweat, blood and tears
donated by the sea. We crawled out of
cow dung, dinosaur lung, yesterday’s lunch pail
so that we may dance among our friends
and familiars—some now fossilized
some in the process. We fly only
a brief zag before our reclamation
call it gravity.
I see visages
clarifying the terms of agreement, whispers
treading my skin, telling me not to fret
about repayment, that our breathing
is repayment enough. In other words
just being is the ROI.
When we’re due
promise you’ll return a well-worn library book
all your creases, scribbles, stains
torn pages half-glued together
til the day we’re checked out again
new jackets, new names written
under our front covers.
Until then
coruscant sky rims the evening
jewel of opal magnitudes
Look up and take a gander
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