are alright;
you really feel you
are light—
that is,
literally
fearfully,
wonderfully made
out of clear, indivisible
gifts
from old stars.
But then, of course, always
must follow
the nights
with their dour
and far less
fastidious hours,
in which only
your outermost
case feels transparent
and glistens—
more like
a pig's
small intestines, stuffed
with its own
muscles, organs
and skin.
