You move on me, not like a mirror,
but like daylight.
A dying man’s life was really a day,
one long day of life,
watch the sky open, watch the sky close.
This cloudscape belongs above Montana.
You step in me, not like mud,
but like river,
unlike the cat chase of Mohenjo-Daro,
unlike the Martian meteorites.
The turquoise from the jewelry-makers of God
I take from your eyes
and hold onto the colors of day.
There — life is frozen.
O Antarctica, only you have beaten time,
or so
the foreign-exchange students
from the mermaid-lands
have told me.
I love you, football, tender, tender.
Humble, Humble Love 