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Knife to soft middle, the sun bleeds in sheets.
Home is hand-washed and so known.
Love like gravity, like
try this and here watch and say more.
On back roads, the trees bend
on turns to kiss the street,
which rakes and
shivers and
goes blue to hold more rain.
Humble and grave, pink with scar skin,
there's everything under my
hands and nothing left to give.
bone, muscle,
pressed berry,
the ocean in my head.
i am washed by the dry heat -
the pace of it, its live and
vascular quiet. the days turn
to days. that nickel taste
is blood. the growers look
west, speak
of rot and its
medicines.
Watching, palms
open, seeded
over and scuffed.
My world as small as a breath
and as big.
When you look, look.
The sculptors go on,
heads down,
hands
a mess of earth,
rock heat and a
clang and flicker.
Under a late sun, the rain some
sick indulgence of gold. Embers working
a pool and scatter. Divine mother, these
soldiers of one mind.
It's true,
the people are hungry.
Grief one long dial tone,
an earache, liquid stone.
The heat roots
to stay, a loneliness.