So, did I at least taste good? Digesting
into the cosmos, like Alan Dugan
among a potluck of stomachs, maybe
only to be this one subtle flourish:
to taste as good as they feel. Each
and every one--man and child
and woman, and woman with baby
slung on her hip alike. Virginia
in the summertime. Enzymes. Intestinal
travel. Lightyears. Nutrients.
To glow out of the faces
that only hours ago
looked on me
as a stranger.
Where else did they earn this yen for the urge to dive out and make water move like swimming? What you taught me:
wherever it's at,
it's mostly in the fins, homey.
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