The sky starts at my feet

On the sand

Beside the “wine-dark sea.”

 

The moon rises

Where my head would be

If I had one.

 

Now the sky is gently raining

Inside me

Raindrops merging with the sea.

 

“I am the sweet smell of the moistened earth,”

Said Lord Krishna.

Nice. I am the salt-smell of the rolling sea.

 

I am no thing and each thing.

 

This aging body

Is breathing, breathing

Until it drops.

 

I widen my eyes

Which are eyes 

Until they’re not.

 

I hold up my hands

Which are hands.