The cemetery, our true home.
This small backyard–with wild flowers
and insects and our past and the future–
is all we need to think about, away from
street seductions and shapes of commerce.
We are not busy here on the dirt road
that snakes an arbitrary lane. Our words trickle
or bloom with all the breath that anyone here
needs to be heard. How everything is full of plain seeing!

We lie down on the hill and see the history
of math and art. Whose thoughts were these?
I do not care what language is because I’m listening to
the heartbeat in the grass. This eggshell skin: we’ll all
fall through and nothing will hatch, but nothing is ever lost.
From here there is no monumental view of things with names,
but we can see everything ever named, past what is etched
in stone. These chips are merely X’s on a map
describing treasure that now would pour through our hands.
(But even today we’re treasure, our flesh the marker for it.)

We practice stillness. See how close a bird comes in,
past the fancy of flight and the thread it cannot peck away.
If we are still, all comes to us eventually: an ant,
heat-seeking; worms, though far away; a bee,
insistent; each other, past design. And down the road
a tractor spreads a fan of dust.