When We Live

What we live (when we don’t live
In the tangle and those swinging
Bridges with missing planks) are pictures
Made of air concocted of floating

Shimmerings that are the orbit
Where you and I sing. Wherever
They hide, we find them, star to star,
That is our sole endeavor,

Our attention sings to
The fireflies. We find the sparks
On dark continents, they skip
Across the deeds of matriarchs,

They flit across the cable waves
Creating thoughts vaster than
The galaxy or clustered with ants,
Or traveling in a caravan.