Neti, Neti
Are you the ragged yellow fields?
No, the grass, broken and happy.
Are you the air, damp and intimate?
No, the deer’s flag, her hoof muffled in the swamp.
Are you the sun patiently peeling the clouds?
No, the star in the dawn’s throat.
Are you the stones bearing me up on their safari?
No, the acorn’s hat, where its thought grows sweet and whole.
I am all these, and yet none:
Not the red streams flooding the banks of cells.
nor the river hungry for the ocean
nor the crows feather that dandles to the ground
nor the wind trafficking in perfume
nor the little pool holding a syllable of water.
Still, I am where the tongue presses the roof of the mouth,
in the crease of the closed hand,
in the foot hesitating on the stoop,
in the eye that draws its shape on the sky
and lingers, waiting for the face of light.