to Whit

Sing Me Back Home

underneath this head full of stars,
the body sparks, speaks electric
despite falling apart 11 years at a time,
over and over, over and over

lyrical, physical, spiritual Whitman
pours out of pores,
the sweet sweat behind
the soul's worksong

the clapping hands of raindrops on water,
the dancing arms of branches on wind,
the singing throats of birds on wire

crackling with the same current emanating from my spine,
lighting dark footsteps upon leaves of grass,
bound for heaven as I follow the song of the nightingale