I can't see my limbs
swinging in the muddy water
the grace of god comes in words
you'd never believe

washed out in clod clouds
tuned out in wind chimes
turned on in creek corners
looking out again, sniffing in animal shapes
looking for the power, watching for the billows
like butterfly snow
blowing them into harbor
to be collected into warm arms
put together carefully into maps and images of difficult to speak
exchanged like gold pieces, used not again as knives
or watery tear stained ropes

wonder for a moment
infinitely
am I real
were you?