Now, we take the moon
into the middle of our brains
so we look like roadside stray cats
with bright flashlight-white eyes
in our faces, but no real ideas
of when or where to run.
We linger on the field's green edge
and say, Someday son, none of this
will be yours. Miracles are all around.
We're not so much homeless
as we are home free, penny-poor,
but plenty lucky for love and leaves
that keep breaking the fall. Here it is:
the new way of living with the world
inside of us so we cannot lose it,
and we cannot be lost. You and me,
are us and them, and it and sky.
It's hard to believe we didn't
know that before; it's hard to believe
we were so hollowed out, so drained,
only so we could shine a little harder
when the light finally came.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem