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.
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