La Porte

In the seam between day and night, wind

                   ruts the dirt road and   

ruffles the milky way of dandelions.

The young among them are greasy gold and urgent,

                   while the old are balanced   

between growth and that burst past   

growing—annihilation, culmination   

                   of a beginning each has always been   

ending toward, admitting more and more   

space, until what's left is   

                   beyond color, a bleary truss

of matter and air. Shocked   

accomplice of the rounding light,   

                   how you tremble in the stretch   

of your death, which is like all deaths,   

geometric with seed. Wind-swimmer,

                   eye-floater, white nightgowned grandmother   

dancing your platelets on the head of this pin,

can you show me how to wish,   

                   how to gather and scatter   

this single hooped breath?