My bones are the sky-salt; the tongues of dead worlds, singing.
I am star ghosts haunting themselves through eternity’s whorl.
The cliff calls me to leap; the abyss is my womb and mother.
The dead frolic in the light of my eyes, the unborn listen with my ears.

Here, at the knife-edge of birth and death, I play with subtle infants;
our invisible games become forests and prairies, silver fishes,
raging rivers. Our laughter makes floods, our tears droughts.
The mountains are our animals. The grasses, our hairs.