Whitman

I am all that grows from me
and all that grows from me is sacred—
              my hair, dirty roots reaching towards sky,
fed by sky, shifted by its undulating currents
              my fingers, spiders, crescents, twigs,
gaunt, blunt, probing, inquisitive...prurient
              my ears, awkward conch shells jammed on as if by mistake,
rigid and ridged, elven,
innocent like unexplored caves for children to bound gaily into
resounding with echoed cheers of courage wanting
as if a dozen more children waited within, fearless guides;
              my nose, obdurate. 

The reach of my eyes knows no bounds;
what walls are there to throw my body against?
                                   and my soul?


I dig     
            my toes
into the ground,
stretch them.

                        All that touches me takes part of me,
                        all that is a part of me is me,
                        is holy;
                        all dies.

My nails scrape the elemental cadavers of brethren,
the callused pads of my big toes
nudge my boundless, shapeless lineage,
dirt runs through my veins
and dirt has tickled my toes
and in that instant I am all,
and haven’t we all?

                        All that touches me takes part of me,
                        I am divine,
                        I live;
                        all lives.

(air is solid and omnipresent;
 we are all touching)

(air is solid and omnipresent,
 yet our vegetable bodies' roots know no inhibition)


We must learn the art of growing hands from our eyes and ears,

so that we may hear the drum circle

like the ringing in our ears