She has a dandelion seed in her hair.
He has a stem in his hand, turns to me and says,
                                   “This is like a microphone,”
                                   and starts singing
                                   and then he flings it away—
                                   we keep walking into the wind.

The lichens come up easily in my teeth,
and the bits of stone stuck to them don’t bother me.
My face is a curtain of rain,
it sinks into the ground
where I see insect nymphs starting to crawl,
and I am to them a warm fragrance, milk in the soil.
When I rise in the air, songbirds fly through me,
sharp wings against naked flight.
I borrow leaves from the trees to wear,
but they lick me clear; I drop as dew,
again biting the lichens, bitter green stones.

In my bed, I am wrapped in stones
I hear a train blowing its whistle 

the middle of the night
I roll toward the train
                                   and it listens to me
                      the rails don’t list
                                   are straight as anything
the back of my head is toward the night-window
                                   as if the sky were its pillow
the hollow-reed sound of the expressway
                                                   fades away
                                   as if the river swallows it