In the scuffle tremble world my heart is cake batter. The world rattles like a piggy bank. Have you remembered why you're here? In birdheaven humans wake In their dark houses & lean out opened windows to choir sing mornings to nested birds. I am trying to tell you something about night games, about the soul's regattas, and the weight of skin. Have you ever done anything beautiful? Beautiful as a man carrying a French Horn? My heart closes like an automatic garage door, opens like a drawbridge. We are so perfect, so many want pretty. We are jewel eaters, children in bright swimming suits crucifix falling into Windex blue days. Priestesses of Incan temples wore gold sunflower medallions. We eat sunflowers, sit on chairs upholstered with stars. Can you only balance alone? In the depathologizing quiet, in the pharmacology of lake, discs of us fall, human foliose, into the earth's green pleats. Our spines light with fireflies. Our hands memorize. The body memorizes the places of rapture, the assemblies of devotions: the music of cold trees, a lisp of ice, the butterfly forest (Have you ever put a butterfly in your mouth?), the aspirin sun, our time-lapse bodies, snow fences blown wild with the foreign language of leaves. The memorizing foot repeatedly puts its steps of divination to the fragrant dreaming earth.