We are made of light aspiring
outward like the edge of night and day
whose interstice is not the line but a circle
you can carry and swing in your hand.
Let the bear pass through.
Like the death of things,
the crow will disassemble into plurals
and pass mostly quiet through the grass.
and
He still remembers the moment
his son was born. How a moon
hot as the sun came out of her
on a bed with the sheets kicked off,
strong slick fingers out-held.
See the green reeds chase the rushing
crow. See him raise the child
to the light, where the moon rides.
