I should have begun with this: the sky.
A window minus sill, frame, and panes.
An aperture, nothing more,
but wide open.
I don't have to wait for a starry night,
I don't have to crane my neck
to get a look at it.
I've got the sky behind my back, at hand, and on
The sky binds me tight
and sweeps me off my feet.
Even the highest mountains
are no closer to the sky
than the deepest valleys.
There's no more of it in one place
A mole is no less in seventh heaven
than the owl spreading her wings.
The object that falls in an abyss
falls from the sky to sky.
Grainy, gritty, liquid,
inflamed, or volatile
patches of sky, specks of sky,
gusts and heaps of sky.
The sky is everywhere,
even in the dark beneath your skin.
I eat the sky, I excrete the sky.
I'm a trap within a trap,
an inhabited inhabitant,
an embrace embraced,
a question answering a question.
Division into sky and earth—
it's not the proper way
to contemplate this wholeness.
It simply lets me go on living
at a more exact address
where I can be reached promptly
if I'm sought.
My identifying features
are rapture and despair.
by Wislawa Szymborska, translated by Clare Cavanagh