On the path my foot is a dream of skin
knuckled grooves emanate light
it is strange, looking
down then up.
No one is here. The path is
a canal that appears as you
step both bare soles forward into the wind
their soundless press rippling
dendrites through space, your body
breathing itself, wings
on the back of your smiling soul
on a cliff's edge
facing the moon as she dreams
of your body enrobed in silver
your body, it bows
offers a feather from your palms.