Your World Poem by Hugh Steinberg

in pockets, is nothing in
itself, that asphalt, those letters,
says I remember, it swept through
me, stayed, in sweat, on the teeth,
the breath, sweeping, I am sweeping,
it is to break roots or
black rain, the so small the slippery
chances of the sky, what
should we save, what was saved? Hide
in long grass wasted time, you
will bear it, in your
heart, you will take it
out of your mouth and
say they should be
taken, it passed through
them so quickly it tore them:
we live in this breach, we
can lie there, we can
kiss, it would draw the
wild grass over us, we have lost
nothing, nothing is lost, yellow
grass, straw, when have I
ever left you, when did I
stop carrying you? With my mouth,
my goldteeth, here, scouring,
broken down, in streamvoices,
black on gray stones
small wings flutter
here and also
here