Where Life Happens

The bald edge of a cliff imparts its knowledge
to open air like the space between our mouths.

Because you can name something, does that make it good?
A feeling, a cloud, a rock formation—you could drown

in the naming of all, surface-shallow but sinkhole studded.
Is this good? Am I good? I touch you somewhere south

of a border I’ve crossed before, a line in the sand straddled
like a horse as though it could carry me into town,

down Leroy Street, along the Shiawassee River awash
with awareness. Where does it happen? Your mouth

makes a shape I can concentrate—no, consecrate—
in the space between the space between.