Sandy Longhorn

Would you search for the source

of god, which is the mouth

and possibly many-tongued,

or for the nest of the swan,

which is a large, open bowl,

a grass house & honest?

Start with a bird—a blue heron

coasting over the reservoir—

and a tree—a loblolly pine,

planted for paper and pulp,

dropping its rusty needles.

What does it take to be awake

in this particular world?

There is a quick breath after the accidental cut and before the blood wells up, pain red as a poppy, the body a font unto itself. Thinking too hard on biology, anatomy, the course of history, I am amazed I stand here breathing. Where is the invisible, intricate clasp of my undoing?