Doesn’t space denote a presence?; an open field
with a body, that roams and breathes, with a soul
calcifying, the noonday heat and breeze
creaking its bones.
The white of winter
beats, the pulse of a language
steadily instructing, carefully molding
truth like the knitting
of a pair of mittens.
And the fox squirrel does not know me,
but knows that I take up space, knows
that I carry with me garbs of orange and green and
blue, break sticks off of the trees,
leave footprints behind.
The Green Lake hums
as the devout ones hum, bent low and
cherishing the dip of their chins,
sensing the cradle of their breath as a holy palm.
Dangerous is the mass
that slithers out of its birth-given frame,
oozes into the expanse of others, chewing existence
with guile and want.
I am convinced I’ll never outgrow the wilderness.
Is the sand grain aware it is part of the desert?
With gentle trotting, I prod and pluck at my zone,
brush my fingers over the night I see, make off
with little bits of air, a thief
I suppose, quietly
just passing through.