STATION THREE

III

They tell me
a sponge’s cells are mirrors of my own
I am descended from fish
or
perhaps it is that
I emerged from the sea fully formed
dripping and sputtering
lustily sucking in the first gasps of breath
stepping out of the foam
neatly impressioning the sand with my feet

so

this sudden threshold ease
in the wild cusp of things
things that bleed
Forest melting into bristled dune
This dune dissolving into pure sand
sand sliding beneath a stippled sea

a vulture is gliding right now
on translucent wings
mountainous afternoon clouds are building
sudden gusts announce perhaps 
of some distant explosion

who knows

song sparrow
tree swallow
they seem to be hiding