*

You can forecast the rain, this Frisbee
overhead though one hand
is always weaker, holds on

the way your belly makes room
for flames, for lower and lower turns
that help you see in the dark

while the Night Star leads the others down
to drink in safety —a great herd
all night thinning out the air

higher and higher, higher and wider
and because the darkness is still water
you can’t hear the sun closing in

crack open the smallest stones
for their light weaker by the hour
—it’s a now-or-never toss

—you ask too much! it’s not some ship
from space —it’s a game for beginners
—you grip the Frisbee and the Earth

still can’t keep its balance
is coming toward you as shadow
half way up, tightening around

your waist, closer and closer
around the fire inside
you were saving for feathers and later.

*

It’s time! the ache side to side
and across your forehead
the wrinkles split open

—the cramp comes into this world
as the tightening grip
that has your eyes, your cry

takes you by the hand
the way its shadow falls
exhausted, in pain and now

two mouths to feed, though one
is still invisible and you
are never strong enough

to lift it, to bathe it
as if it needed lullabies
would grow into your arms

held up to be carried
one next to the other
—what you hear in the ground

is the cry birds have, made crazy
from watching the sky forever
hold down the Earth though this rake

leaves nothing intact, its handle
half unnoticed, half
from behind, holding on, held

by the still damp dirt
floated out for more room
that enters from somewhere

and everything around you
backwards and forwards, covered over
with eggshells and emptiness.