Untitular

Does it all sink back to earth again,
These thrumming, violent tendons of truth
That pick and weave their routes through us?

If only languid language might make a place for me in her heart;
I could dust, make dinner, maintain house.
I am not so bad at it.

But yet the thing eludes.
Is the thing a thing at all?

On days buoyant I might bob just so
And keep a level head remembering
The world is always three parts -

Above, below,
And here.