When you walk over
the earth, it asserts
itself: “Here. Here.
Here,” it says to your
feet. You must reckon
with the earth, though it enters
you less. The sky always
has its hand in you,
as if you were a puppet,
through your ears down
your throat into your
lungs—and with the tips
of its fingers there, it caresses
every capillary, every blood cell,
until they blush.