I lie with my face low
in the grass, a lark
high above us. An ant drags
a dry stalk across my hand. I see
what it sees: precipitous
pores, a forest of grass, the treacherous
peaks of sand.
Salty sweat floods its eyes
and mine. The lark is already there,
where we
peer from, clinging to the earth: the ant,
the yellow flowers, and I. It soars
still higher, moving toward
the truth. Or farther from it. And if
there are two truths: the ant’s
and the lark’s, the sky’s and the furrowed
hand’s, the truths of song and crawling.
Standing aside-where
am I. Which of them will
take me. With my thirst
for contradictions, for generating useless questions,
with this cowardly “between,” my
shaky
truth.