We gave each thing its morning dew and went our little blade.
We put our feet on sand and glided ligaments and grains
as eyes so small to us knew only stains that we brought down,
some haze of malformation dulling from our wake of tons.
And every name that closed upon was chosen out of ours
and every thought that chased a thing was excellent in errors
still—we hold our faces up and reconfigure all
we see as if, in front of us, it dented to our will.
How let our body with its wander kill less than it can?
How let our thinking be the wound world’s opening up in?
We gave each thing its morning dew and went our little blade
as every name we settled on was given with a grave.