connected

The sun makes a larger name
for itself, leaks and bursts
it's burning voice toward our wet
home. Blue and usually able
to cool itself. Perhaps we look
too much like treasure.

We stay inside with all the fans spinning
jazz, windows closed, coveting
the last cool notes from
the meteor night.

I wonder about Moscow, burning steadily,
700 souls dropping daily in the haze.
Sun spreads orange wings.

We will travel to the water today,
pray with our hands and legs.
practice the fish's dance.
Fly with ghosts.

Not one moment will pass us by
without a grateful utterance.
We look to the sky under us,
see the end and beginning
of all things,

cool our cells,
imagine,

hold the hand
of all people.