Late one afternoon we were lying on
by Anthony Parker
the grass, you and I in the park, reveling in the
thinly veined wonder that is your skin—
water-proof, a parallel universe of creams
and oils. An insect, an ant, walked onto
your leg with the care of a man on stilts,
stepping uncertain. He traveled over the sliver
of your ankle, avoided the errant hair.
This must have been the way prehistoric
birds moved before they discovered flight—
when the Earth was nothing more than
the sense of touch and trees splitting both
sun and moon into shards of light,
broken into the wonder of order.