Even this world seems enough when starlings shimmer on the grass
First dawnlight imagines my hands
out of the dark, this ache to press
the air scrubbed after last night’s storm
aside like a door. And all
have risen in sleep.
We ply currents into the sky,
gliding, hovering, climbing again
as if we loved the far moon—
until the body tugs,
insists on the earth, and the dreamer
regains the muddy shell and casts about
for a word to crack open the dark,
for threshold in the tongue of angels.