This year I’ve felt the push of antlers
thrusting out of my head.
I’ve leaned my head many times toward the grass, stretching
my neck to drink. This year
I’ve awoken from the catacombs of sleep,
my cheeks wet with spring water,
my heart beating like a river
sprung from rock.


Sometimes in the open you look up

to see a whorl of clouds, dragging and furling
your whole invented history. You look up
from where you’re standing, say
among the stolid mountains,

and in that moment your life

becomes the margin
of what matters, and solid earth

you love dizzies away from you

like the wet shoreline sucked back

by that other eternity,

the sea. At times the spinning
earth shrugs you off balance,
gravity loosens its fist, hoists you into the sky,
and you might spend your life trying to recover

this nearness to flight.