Besides, little goat, you can't just go asking for mercy.
With a body like that, it's easy to forget
about the spirit—the sun unfolding over your coat, your throat
too elegant for prayer. I like it fine, this daily struggle
to not die, to not drink or smoke or snort anything
that might return me to combustibility. Historical problem:
it's harder than you'd think to burn even what's flammable.
Once, I charged into your body and invented breath. Or,
I stumbled into your mouth and found you breathing. When I left,
I left a lozenge of molten ore on your tongue. Stony grain-pounder,
sleepy pattern-locator, do this: cover your wings, trust
the earth, spread your genes. Nothing here is owned. The ladder
you're looking for starts not on the ground but several feet below it.
