Dead singularity of all things seen
in isolation, —

I take one sculpture with me this morning.
I turn it to the trees if they won’t bend
in my direction when I lose my gaze
in their deep rootedness.

Out on the sky,
“ The Hands” can resurrect. Then, hands no more,
take their shape from my own.

Yes, like me
certain past lives, past hours, still in this one,

they’ll find theirs in shape-shifting, going around—

The corporality of living things?
No, souls of seabirds, two wings stopped in flight.
Paolo and Francesca, separate.

I don’t want to write personal poems,
but I will tell you when I see white flames
like these I am drawn back to childhood:

mornings like these I can start life over
and then second time over, a third—