limbs like vines reach for sky
but find only themselves to climb
the arms make a ring
the legs step through & twisting
bending
writhing
a man ties himself
into knots
there you can see
the woman walking
arched
on her hands
& there the girl
curled so small
she can hold
herself
in her palm
somewhere a young boy
practices
the shapes
of his father.
O, we are lucky there are no locks
on heaven’s gates
for what good are all these keys
that have lost their shape
with grief?