There’s a moment when I’m touched
by the sky inside the sky, the song
inside the song, the apple inside the apple.
It’s as if each bit of the world is itself,
only more so, and it reaches in
to trace the scaffolding of my life,
charging me with its utter purity,
its incontestable presence, as if to say
This, this is what it is to be alive,
and I hum with it, pulse with it,
glow with the wonder of it—
Rain. Rhubarb. Sand. Blood.
This. This. This. This.
This. This. This.