Small

Fairer to say your body
Is in the minute closeness
Of simple interactions

Than in all the constructions
You and everyone put on
Selves by the name of body.

When you get a lone moment
Leaning close to consider
A brilliant green patch of moss

Between two stones in a spot
Of sudden, low-angled sun,
No wider than your thumb’s long,

And you finger it, softly,
Not harming it, sensing it,
Then you are made of body.