I lie with my face low
in the grass, a lark
high above us. An ant drags
a dry stalk across my hand. I see
what it sees: precipitous
pores, a forest of grass, the treacherous
peaks of sand.
Salty sweat floods its eyes
and mine. The lark is already there,
peer from, clinging to the earth: the ant,
the yellow flowers, and I. It soars
still higher, moving toward
the truth. Or farther from it. And if
there are two truths: the ant's
and the lark's, the sky's and the furrowed
hand's, the truths of song and crawling.
am I. Which of them will
take me. With my thirst
for contradictions, for generating useless questions,
with this cowardly "between," my
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