You do not have to hold back salty tears, afraid of the rain for lack of the O zone, the trash burned by the unlovely Lord of Land.
You only have to let your eyes feel the sun sit in the cradle of your wrinkled windowed soul, breaking against pressure sedated.
Tell me about your fragile skin and I will tell you about mine.
Meanwhile the world is separated by environments—don’t let the desert touch the white and perfect snow.
Meanwhile the sun and rivers dance on light and wishes while forests are torn from their roots across our spaceship, their old age awash and forlorn against a rush of voices over radio signals and the course toward some idea of progress that makes the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clear blue air are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter your dry or moist, faded skin, the world offers the rain, the infrastructure of your own body calls to you like your mother’s pure squeal and joy at your oceanic arrival—over and over announcing your place in the blue and the green and the white and the real dirt, our spaceship.