On High

There was busy air there, air

seething through the leaves so,

from farther up, the tree-line shone

like a single scintillating polyhedron.

Still, though ravens and wrens flaked off the top,

the woods held, solid as a mall

or a rally or a lake — really anything

at all when seen from a ways. But

we'd waded through those branches, scraped

on brambles, toed stumps; seen

rot and bits of bone and a blue broken egg.

So while we squatted on a scaly boulder,

and a jet stream's cremains cleaved

the sky in two, I saw I'm also smattered

shards, steady from afar, some parts

me and some parts room.