In the Dying of Anything

Speaking only that our words might bend grasses,

make paths which are both simple and possible,

we talk together and failing with words we touch.

There is nothing simpler nor more human than this.

Once ignorant of any feeling’s end

we dreamt in proportion to galaxies,

measuring each other against rainbows love burst,

fell softly soaking us.

But we lie quieter now,

older,

arms pressed out against darkness.

In the dying of anything walks a creature looking for its song:

huge, it bends down planets that it might ask them

the ways back to life again.

No longer one steady and running stream

we are glad to lie here,

catching what life and light we can.

There is nothing simpler, nothing more human than this.