“For every atom
belonging to me as good belongs to you.”
~From “Song of Myself” by Walt Whitman
The mitochondrial needle stitches green
into a leaf
that branches and blooms into a forest of plant.
In Gotham, the hooker steps off the curb
into a sea of a hundred million tailor-made
I cannot sift them all or know in this flesh and flow
where one ends and another begins
any more than I can divide raindrops that
fall in sheets
to cleanse the bruising sidewalks and sloping gutters
that form a single grid of a thousand streets.
The stardust of Hera’s milk spans the sky,
an entwined ribbon of nuclear fire and fusion
giving birth to chalk-white bones in your legs and mine.
Together, we walk as one,
stitching days hyphenated by the rising and falling sun
into a single stream, a book with a single theme of time.
There is the you of me and the me of you,
a bonnie lad and a more-than-fetching lass
bound as an epic poem from lasting leaves of grass.