What do you say when you've forgotten
how the grass smells，
married to the dark
soil crumbling1 in your hands？
When the sun makes a bed for you to lie in？
When a voice you've never heard
has missed you，
singing down your bones
it's taken so long to get here.
Now I'm breathing in the mountains
as if I'd never left.
And when I go inside
I'm surprised to see a lime green worm
has landed on my shorts，
inching his way across a strange white country.
He sTOPs and rises，
leaning out of himself
a tiny periscope2
peering from the glow of the underdream
where there are no symbols for death.
He looks around.
I place my index finger
at the tip of what I guess to be his head，
though I don't see an eye or an ear，
or the infinitesimal feet
as he crawls across my palm
a warmer planet.
Lately I've wondered
what hand guides my way when I am lost.
I can't feel him
though I see him rise again，
survey the future， flat
and broken into five dead ends.
I curl my fingers to make a cup
and carry him like a blessing3 to the garden
What will happen next is a mystery
to be so light in the world， to leave no tracks.
