Because we cannot take these bodies into heaven,
we must ground them here in the arable of
Tooth and hair, sweat and musk.
Constellations to stardust –
I remember you.
I re-member you.
Here, hold still, here is the crux of it,
the point of entry, or the continental drift.
Let me taste in turn the holy stations:
centres of pilgrimage,
exalted in perfect equilibrium,
and save for last that
within your ribs.
1 December 2013