Walking, Baby in Arms, Thinking of Nazca
Winter rain on tile, the slide of the sofa,
past the dishwasher’s tidal woosh,
carpet thread-bare under callused feet,
wood worn to fiber.
Some say they are lines of meditation,
prayers, stories—straight as shots
turning on architects’ angles.
To walk them is to know their power.
I knew their shapes from the sky—
dragonfly, monkey, serpent—
the unlikely animals of children’s books.
So removed from what mattered.
Serenaded by the jet engine.
Height and motion sick,
breathless, before you were born.
We breathe now, together.
Later you will not believe
you weighed more asleep than awake.