by Frances Richey

    What do you say when you've forgotten

    how the grass smells，

    married to the dark

    soil crumbling¹ in your hands？

    When the sun makes a bed for you to lie in？

    When a voice you've never heard

    has missed you，

    singing down your bones——

    it's taken so long to get here.

    Now I'm breathing in the mountains

    as if I'd never left.

    And when I go inside

    I'm surprised to see a lime green worm

    has landed on my shorts，

    inching his way across a strange white country.

    He stops and rises，

    leaning out of himself——

    a tiny periscope²

    peering from the glow of the underdream

    where there are no symbols for death.

    He looks around.

    I place my index finger

    at the tip of what I guess to be his head，

    though I don't see an eye or an ear，

    or the infinitesimal feet

    as he crawls across my palm——

    a warmer planet.

    Lately I've wondered

    what hand guides my way when I am lost.

    I can't feel him

    though I see him rise again，

    survey the future， flat

    and broken into five dead ends.

    I curl my fingers to make a cup

    and carry him like a blessing³ to the garden——

    What will happen next is a mystery——

    to be so light in the world， to leave no tracks.

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