BECOMING DUST

A man can wish for shape and sound
that resonates with those he loves
when he’s away—that far distance

our hearts have yet to learn to leap
and be two places at once—to cross
the ink black sky, dot to dot, stars

as stepping stones to both sides,
our envelope in space between here
and there, the stream we swim

with the ease of trout, with grace
and poised efficiency, as matter
not yet facts we comprehend.

But a man must wish it first, follow
the splintered light beams, become
the dust long enough to find a way.

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