There Are No Stones in the Sky

Late at night

we meet in a tree trying
to remember our original
bodies.  Bodies of salt
crystal & air.

As something draws us near
the laughter
of secrets & fire.

There are no stones in the sky

or in the hand.  Only
a place where
paired dreams prepare
a time against such counting.

Only a place where God survives.

Late at night
in a tree we discuss the senseless
condition of not remembering
the secret air around stones.

We take up instruments to see

each star & all
the space between.  And
hear the sounds
of moons soaring
into place.  We

watch the solar flare

long for language.  We
meet in a tree to reach
these stars and know these
destinies.

Exactly as the heart

celebrates its blood we
celebrate.  This night.
This tree.  This voice
again.