Feet and tongue. Heart and mind.

We tilt
headlong into the celestials, looking for a slice

of phantom time. For an atom
is a moment

in the mass, a throne where the soul sits
and ponders an instant.

Ghosts tell me

coyote makes her way across;
a body is only a boat to leap the ravine.

Ghosts tell me

tree grows tall by pulling herself apart;
with one arm she reaches toward heavens,
the other

down into the darkness.

I walk. I talk. This is what I am.
A thing that moves and thinks,

seeing the petals on a flower and dreams of
the beams of a star in midlife.

I do not question enough whether I am good or bad;
this human dialoged has only taught me

whether I am right, or a failure.

Roads and voices. Heart
and thoughts. We have carried our buckets of proof

to the holy lands, planted our seeds there;

yet, nothing has grown so large
as to overtake us.

We grieve.

The earth is full of our bones.