Does the kingfisher, rattling over the river, possess one?
What of the staghorn beetle? The Douglas fir? The Himalayas?
If I looked through the deepest microscope, could I find the oak
Coiled within the acorn? Could I find my own death within me?
Would it be fine-grained, like sharkskin, or jagged as the Himalayas?
From what are we saving daylight? Are there telephones in the grave?
Did Nijinsky remember his dances as a phantom limb feels ghost pain,
Or as a snow leopard considers the valleys far below the Himalayas?
Tell me, what fills the sleep of whales? Do they dream of their lost feet?
Of the empty air as they breach skyward and crash in fountains?
Do they look at us as we look at clouds scattered above the Himalayas?
Why is there no vocative case for god in Greek? If god is not a noun,
Is it a verb whose tenses we have not yet learned to master?
Is her skin godding the sunset? Do cranes god over the Himalayas?
Since Keats always began or ended his great odes with questions,
Should we assume he only found answers in the midst of life?
What does the soul weigh? As much as a flower? Or the Himalayas?