Thought at the Parting of These Waters by John Rybicki (not Andrew Ratner...haha, oops)

Morning and evening
like two sides of one hand.

All the prickly stars
with their beard set

upon us. Who sees through
these molecular clothes

to where the skeleton paws
at the air as if

climbing a ladder,
or swimming feebly upward?

The river hounds us
wet and white and swift,

conspires with the colt
kicking in our chest

and even our toes
point towards death.

How precious to hunger for
morning and the tilt

of all things -- lampshades
by windows, cups

of warm milk, fire hydrants
all lilting towards her

when I rise and pour
across the earth to where

her heart stands like some factory
with sun in every window

slanting its legs
to press upon the ash.

The way her loveliness summons
me like some trumpet

made of blood jutting up
amidst the last dandelions

and dying grass to sing to her.