They exhaust me who preach
the world is mine to make,
the world is mine to make,
as though without me – or
someone sadly like me – there is
no epic tale of light’s procession here,
no narrative of tides
or of desiring birds. Is this
what they, bedside,
tell their children?
Out here, in dawn’s half-light,
where the world makes me whole – us
whole – I praise the narrow inlet,
its brackish story, that warbler nearby
getting it said – I am here.
