the faces run of smoke, coal upon the chest, shouldering the pillows like rust.
the moon slowness and boulders teaching ants, training the lift of the leaves that press us like palms. the seedlings nestle, falling out of the ground wombs and touching the fist of the grass.
speech in the touches, bees licking the nectar, tasting the fruits–saying it’s all home
like the baby painting with applesauce, straddling the plastic, moving the finger lines in the dark and stretching at the glowing mobiles. the life seeping from the smallest eyes, parting the sheets and crying into the wool. there is the smallest of breaking in the first sounds–the tongue lists the ways it loses innocence. the thin line between the frost and rain, the coldest tendrils weaving into the moments–the crack in the neuron sending its whisper into the brain stream sending the man home from the tower, the car into the water, the bridge to the bay–we sit touching the life-glass, pressing like a mime and hoping for the cracks a or bends, finding the weaving holes, the gorgeous crooks, the sharpest edges.