(In)divisible

               After Famous by Naomi Shihab Nye

The nose is lonely to the eyes,
unable to sense its invisible threads

of connection. Magnify life enough
and you can trace the separation

between all things: each divisible cell,
the open rings of roots, the wild yarn

of a feather, every loose strand
holding together the canvas of breath.

We divide our pine-knit shelters:
there’s a place to hang our dusty layers,

a smooth surface for sharing soup,
a nest to rest our cells—

all of them lonely but for the beating
souls that pass between them.

This train weaves a lonely line into
the evening. We gaze out the windows,

each seeing our own version of corn,
hardly recognizing we’re all moving

in the same direction.