The Myth of Distance

No creature's exempt from thirst and desire.

          So when a friend writes The body is 
a constellation of joy, I release 

a long breath, several breaths. I too want 

          to be a shape reclining on the inky canopy, 
a string of garden lights tethering my left

heel to my rib bone, my scapula, my shoulder 

          dome; and the line from there leading down 
the wrist and to the hand,  which is holding 

either a pencil or a mug filled with coffee 

          and froth, or a trowel and a bit of cake
on a dessert spoon. All around me, silky tufts

         of milkweed are falling at their own soft 
speed. And I am not alone, I am unafraid. 

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