The Secret

There is an island in Utah –
yes, an island – from which I stole
a small stone.

I am telling you this because
it is not magic.

It was a bright day in April
and I had driven across three states.
In the grass, a single antelope

unmoving. Every animal tends
an instinct to trust.

Between my fingers,
a sliver of light, silver and warm.
No, it is not magic –

it is the sky which grows to fill
an empty lake, a bed of salt.

Under my head, the softest hill
to ever live. Yes, live.