The skin need not be at the beach
to feel the lapping of little waves
in the rippling of molecules from
that hazy distance you have been to
when a child and then with children.
That rotation of the tree swing is
in your belly well encoded to
swell a swallow sickly sour with
two flat feet and a little thought
of ropes wound up in speed.
I conjure up many-eyed stories of
casablanca fez alexandria luxor
wherein sleeps my own experience
the many hands on the many skinned
drums wake up africa and send it
foot-ward and up into raised arms.
When I first saw my first daughter
I was body and soul at home
this girl was where I had been living
under trees and beside rivers encoded
in prescient and pre-existent happy
moments of inaudible harmony.
Then my lanky impressionable son
the daughter in charge of the good table
and the girl who clings to running steps
the knee-scuffed little lost dreamer
the towering boy of backlit joy
my baby rocker still in his shell.
These are the people who make my person
in a string of beads between galaxies
on a stone part way across the stream
intimated by the shape of the bones
the skeletal algorithm like undeniable
strategy peeps out of every window.
North enscribed in its cool instructions
showing up in the sun-shy direction
my south warming up early and daily
to source of light in twinkling eyes
all loitering and wandering ending
up where sitting quietly is prize.
The nonalignment of knees for sleep
the consignment of order to the back
burner of the stove where we cook
afternoons and evenings of gluttony
food and drink of singing and thinking
what is in our perfect patient nature.