When you are sky ...
the night's no reproach
the storms you'll become ride from Georgia to Florida
the beach breaks down for you now like old mirrors
your mother's sky too, like a roof overhead
your father's a cloud over Wadsworth, Ohio
though scribbled with names you don't have to remember them

you'll fill, any minute, with holy migrations
you'll be copied and copied and copied by ocean
you'll transparently cup any hand with a key

if stolen you'll find your way home
if cursed you'll release all your animals
if the world still exists, it's seed to your pulp