Where I might live I could live in the air, the sixteenth floor or higher, an aerie over prairie, enough to feel the volume of grass bending to sky, misty horizons grown sharp, edge anchored to the eye. Height can be gorgeous glory. Or I could live so low, the sun always marginal, aslant along sidewalks, spilling through the half windows gridded by iron bars, skirting the wee dank shadows of underground, of hope (all hope so soft and secret). I could live. I could live from moment to moment and whether the eye of bird or mole could sense sky's changing. I could unfold myself and become the atmosphere, all of it, all the light and dark, all of the turning.