Which stone will be first,
when things come apart,

which river will sweep up

the dragonfly’s invisible heart,

which caterpillar will

become which butterfly,

what will the weasel with the wind

at the tip of their tongue dream

before dumping out a basket

full of diamonds into the morning;

their red cheek streaked

with lightning-mud and claw marks,

what will that one damn dog

who unraveled everything

think while overhearing the humans

laughing on the porch

carrying joy out among the grasses,

what will finally lead the divided,

to find wasps in the wood sorrel

experiencing with awe, the bees

who draw bouquets of flowers

below the sky scrapers,

distributing pollen through

these perilous times,

who will set right the discrepancies

between what was written

and what has been lived,

haven’t we always felt the things we are made of

haven’t the things we are made of always felt us,

how could any one piece be separated

when there is only braided mutual metabolisms,

how could any one piece be separated

when there is only woven and constant transformation,

how could any one piece be separated

when there is only entwined relationships,

when there is no alone,

how could there be anything

other than alive.