Know that limits are for leaping;

are but theorems,

lines and brackets drawn

imposingly but bare

around the past of when and where,

and do not touch,

with their severe necessity

the greenspot where your life dwells.



There are laws for low and high,

for water and for dry,

none of which apply

when Purple Martins sweep the water with their wings,

rise with wet and evening meat,

and fly.



And know that we,

beyond our tight entelechy,

are something more:

are, yes, God’s spoor.