I belong to my alarm clock and the six am shuffle
that since my childhood has been a queer calling.
I belong to the coffee machine,
and the aroma of the Sierra Nevada highlands
that I have only seen with others’ eyes and hands.
I belong to busyness and the founding myth
of the White Anglo-Saxon, Protestant,
I am counted by the businessman in the stars.

Yet more precisely,
I am owned by the clouds,
who bring down the rivers of life,
I belong to the clouds,
who bring succor to the heart in the evening.
I belong to snake shedding her skin
and the infinite miracle of the tadpole,
I belong to the shtetl
where my grandmother spun.

I belong to the nameless ones on my left,
and to the faceless ones on my right,
I am carried by forces that are no longer capable
of being described
but are, within the several spheres, as alive as you and me.

My neighbor, and my very soul, lies bleeding in the gutter.
My neighbor, and my very soul, arises from the dirt,
in a different form, and foreign to me.
The tiniest of bugs own my future within the cradle of their antennae.
The banyan deer is my master and teacher.
I am a follower of the rising of the corn,
rising like a helix around the beans and squash,
before the plants come to fruition, I am not.

I belong to the nothingness that predates me, and gives me form.
And to the clouds that kiss me every day,
whether I notice or not.
And I belong to you, dear piece of the stars:
what would you have of me?