That’s where one should have started: the sky.
A window without a sill, without frames or panes.
An opening, and nothing besides,
but gaping wide.

I needn’t wait for a clear night
nor crane my neck
to examine the sky.
The sky is behind me, under my hand, on my eye-lids.
The sky wraps me up tightly
and lifts me from below.

Even the highest mountains
are not nearer the sky
than deepest valleys.
At no point is there more of it
than at another.
A cloud is crushed by the sky
as ruthlessly as a grave.
A mole as sky-ascending
as a wing-flapping owl.
An object falling into an abyss
falls from the sky to sky.



Granular, fluid, rocky
fiery and airborne
expanses of sky, crumbs of sky,
gusts and snatches of sky.
The sky ever-present
even in darkness beneath the skin.

I eat sky, I defecate sky.
I am a trap inside a trap.
A dwelt-in dweller,
an embraced embrace,
a question in answer to a question.

The division into sky and earth
is not a proper way
of considering this whole.
It only allows one
to survive under a more precise address,
quicker to find,
should any one seek me.
My distinguishing marks
are wonder and despair