We can stroll in our own blood-stream, waltz over and through the ground of our muscles, and bounce on the woods of our bones.
Sit, and taste the pink marrow inside.
I offer two poems that come to me today.
what
bones the night
the
wreath,
the
open eye
of
silence
listening
for
the movement
of
the bow
and
the moans of pine cones
as
they offer their spores
to
moor
the
ground
in
its rise
Present
deep
count of the pulse, a purse,
the
shifting of coins.