This desire to return to the dirt
is a definition of identity.
I am hydrogen, oxygen, carbon,
all furnaced before time emerged.
Given life in composite.
A few years, and falling apart.
Is this what Yeats meant,
the centre cannot hold?
Who wants it to hold?
Return me to the dirt
and I will be ants, trees, other people;
perpetuated not by DNA
but by belonging and releasing.
I am the Resurrection.
What am I beyond atoms?