We are square, we are caterpillars, we are churches.
We are clever, we are overgrown, we are inches,
we are kissed. We are Excalibers with blunt edges.
We are America, Americas everywhere.
We are the lust of evening’s infinity,
and then we are evening’s infinity,
we are the woman in the cage labeled
NOVEMBER PHOTOGRAPHS and we are the mute woman with her
and the traveling angels always half-seen.
Always we are stumps and pines. We are the branches
and the branches trembling. We are the squirrels
and the squirrels flying with flaps of skin.
We are the morning devotion called soul-friends.
We are dancers and the pink tutus on the dancers.
We’re peace pipes, exhaust pipes and promissory notes.
We are spiderwebs and flint, and people coming home.
We discard and gather, we always gather. We paddle
recklessly, nurse the newborns because everyone
is a newborn. We are thirst and gulps, supper
and bread. We are the bread and supper everywhere.
We are lunacy, and wonder, and leap, and life.
We are leaping now lying still enough to feel everything.
We are, and we are nothing important.