Where the salt keeps               the sea in place, the water is not just
defined by what holds it, but by what it holds. Where it is
so with all bodies. Where the envelope, opened, allows light

both in and out, becomes sound sent without a whisper. Where voice can
mean photon or pigment or wave. Where each line
break is a skin and a penetration. Where your           self, a thermic

outline, a shape you learned the name of years ago, learns another
important heat. Where the buildings sculpt the wind. Where the hills
hold the wheat and the wheat             eats the hills. Where what is far

and what is close lose any definition of distance and reemerge
as a new kind              of together: a star we can touch without burning.
Where the metaphor becomes the thing it means to explain. Where the tips

of tongues meet. Where what is next is what is now. Where we have
walked through nebulae and learned new words for rain. Where we are
when our eyes close, when they open. Where every last where is. Here.