As the sun rolls over the earth,
we pick little strands of radiation
from our teeth. We recognize faces
for what they are–temporary housing
for the circuitry that connects lips
to voice, the processor converting
the sky into a handshake, a kiss
into a little home in the country.
As we pull in each days nourishment
from jet vapor and pollen, we are struck
by the necessity of breathing together,
because our food from the gods
will rapidly compost, but the earthly
morsels we grow from each other
will hold us close in the dusk and
clothe us in the radiance of contentment.
: andy l. kubai : writer : 