The Hands Are Churches That Worship The

I Support All People On Earth Who Have Bodies Like And Unlike My Body, Skins And Moles And Old Scars, Secret And Public Hair, Crooked Toes. I Support Those Who Have Done Nothing Large.

There Is A Place To Stand Where You Can See So Many Lights You Forget You Are One Of Them.

Maybe We Try Too Hard To Be Remembered, Waking To The Glowing Yellow Disc In Ignorance, Swearing That Today Will Be The Day, Today We Will Make Something Of Our Lives. What If We Are So Busy Searching For Worth That We Miss The Sapphire Sky And Cackling Blackbird. What Else Is Missing? Maybe Our Steps Are Too Straight And Our Paths Too Narrow And Not Overlapping. Maybe When They Overlap Someone In Another Country Lights A Candle, A Couple Resolves Their Argument, A Young Man Puts Down His Silver Gun And Walks Away.

Poetry [is] More Necessary Than Ever As A Fire To Light Our Tongues.

Since There Is No Place Large Enough To Contain So Much Happiness, You Shrug, You Raise Your Hands, And It Flows Out Of You Into Everything You Touch. You Are Not Responsible. You Take No Credit, As The Night Sky Takes No Credit For The Moon, But Continues To Hold It, And Share It, And In That Way, Be Known.