Andrea Baker




the clarity
was so like the perfect roundness
of a zero

like almost nothing at all


and so

like the face on a coin in water
bending into water—


           there is reason
where life is made


when you fall all the way back
what else holds you in






rocks fall from the mountainside
in love with their own will to fly

and we feed each other our living

as the birds flicker
and the lake gathers your body
slipping in like a scar

a jar made of skin
inside a larger jar

until there is no sky
and no sky higher

and something else has called out
to be almost nothing at all