Between what makes a snowflake
Itself and a species

is a recklessness
(and something deeper)

that only a soul
can know; I wonder

how many?

How many sparks
(between the lines)

in my hands --
in his?

How many ways
to make a simple thumbprint

and a thumb
is nothing more than a digit?

We are somewhere beyond
constellations;

We are somewhere beyond
some kind of wonderful

and i am
joyfully weeping

at all of the ways
we spread dust

in these chasms
of skin

and i am
breathing.