poem from being. still
723
the pitch of the world around us
she says, rest some
turn it off
like my im-pulses
were a radio
we should tune
walking outside
my house moves
on two legs
there’s a goat
and birds singing
for their supper
the world I live in
a field of stars
shooting a current
into the earth
raising worms
a song before we’re all eaten
a gift
this
acoustic pilgrimage
helps me sleep
holds me
and keeps me, awake
enough
to listen
if my sole creative act
were that