Staked slack, we sink into clay. We turn off the stars, do not ask
how it is that we came to be hardened. If we did: it began with a break,
an unreachable distance. Guided by faraway train horns, we rose first
from cracked earth like seedlings in spring. We forgot what had been

and we set about sagging. Ignored how the clouds had shed tendrils
of light, like strings teased from cottonsedge all across our skin.
We grew old and thin. But, sky, I am coming—one hand on the door,
one warming its palm on the dog’s sunned fur. Half-past twelve

and the flowers are already closing their faces, blind-drunk
on bee’s breath and sun. Here is my rent check and sentience. Just the price
for a piece of the doorbell. To cross the bridge you rise first from the dish
where the buildings and traffic lights heap. Overhear a piano. A distant galaxy

keeps dripping: out of tune, it reminds you. We can get back, undressed
by the crass hand of sky. Someone is going to make it out of this dream alive.