And though these stones all night
come from the same fountain
they still clear the sky

for hillsides and what overflows
they carry back as the distance
that takes forever to dry

—it must be raining inside
where every stone you hold
has slope to it, falls face up

the way once there were two skies
—that's right! two horizons
two mornings and the sun that's left

is still looking for the other
though in the darkness
you hear your arms folding

—even without wings the Earth
almost remembers growing huge
lit and this endless rain

has always depended on it, the rest
is lost, calling out from your hand
and even further off.

You strap this watch in place
as if it inherited the wobble
that grew into sunlight

then darkness, then wear, then
you set the time years ahead
the way dirt still unravels

and between each finger
a slow, climbing turn remembers
the middle before it became

the sun—it's hopeless! the watch
trying to keep up
taking you by the hand

though you dig alongside
clearing the ground for later
for the footsteps already wagons

and you wait, humming
to the small circle passing by
tired and in your mouth.

You kneel the way this sky never learned
those chancy turns the dirt throws back
as breezes, still warm, scented

with what's left from when the Earth
had two centers, one blue, the other
footsteps, half random, half gathered in

for stones no longer moving
—you begin each descent
unsure, around and around, entangled

as if roots would nudge the dead closer
again into your arm waving goodbye
with one more than the other

—it's how you dig, folded over
and your shadow deeper and deeper
already reeks from far off and wings.