(a golden shovel using a line from Song of Myself, 1)


Churchbell’s round sound spools down    my

canals, drums vibrate, tiny hums on my    tongue.

I feel it all—    every

flavor, every flick, every    atom

sized switch flipped, tidal rhythm     of

swell and fall, swell and fall—    my

hair breeze-riffled, my    blood

a-run in channels unseen, thick with oxygen    form’d

from tomato vine’s rising sighs,    from

shade trees drunk on light, smiling down on    this

sun-dappled weedy patch of    soil,

I float (miniscule mote!) upon     this

great wave, this shared    air.