How many times do I have to say it: Listen,
a whine in a bulb,
		its hiss of life,
the fragile sister of the mosquito, the electric life of wings.
There is a wheel rut for each of us somewhere.
Look closely at the skein of eggs,
		root the mud for a clamped oyster
fallen from a truck.  Cover your nose and mouth
with both hands, and there,
			in that shallow cup,
feel a buffalo's breathing steam.
A toppled stone, its face veiled by weeds—
crouch. The blooms become helmets.
Allow for delirium, a thirst. Take in
so much sun that you feel a cold absence,
as if you’ve sipped a hole into the world.