I was four years old
looking from the gravel
of my house;
I saw the corner of the world.
Have you ever lifted the world
that young?
Lost yourself in worm holes?
Saw houses become little
in your nearsighted vision?
Now I am out of breath
asking which way to turn.
If I could call out
does anything answer?
Should I wait and freeze,
burn up,
weep until I melt away?
Or hover under my blanket
and go back to every crossroads
taking every right and left,
until every life is claimed,
every love completed,
every sorrow known,
then turn into a stone
for a child to make his own.