not quite a word, a hum for sure
—the effort of some sort of understanding?
Or maybe it was cared for once,
maybe it's recalling.
How strange it was—to see things left behind
and be glad that one was moved.
Still, in the cruelty of the telling
the landscape is transfixed.
Prayer: that in someone else’s breath
your name sound like the hand that stirred you,
that it turn out you were just tired
—who wouldn’t be, with feet so caked,
sand in nostrils, knees wet with loam—
that in the morning, another roll a limb,
outstretched, a limb for dipping,
ready, yawning, to receive,
to crawl, to writhe, and swallow earth,
once your body, as the foam piles up,
embeds the looking. Oh, shape-giver:
good morning :)
your lot today is horses, what
to make of their cool thrum,
how to put it somewhere
and what to call that place
—an egg, a hole,
or just a fishing net?
A weave of voids designed to hold
but a few selected things.
Most miss its joints and flow away.
Those held we will consume.