“The ruse and the agitation of the outside/inside”
Any depth of breath, every depth,
is scaling the height,
the notch where the night itemizes it’s detail,
those fox cove colors, the henna or/and nettle,
fast as all the undersides and silence
where beneath rocks the past animates dirt.
And you, and we, are cautious- kind to each other
by habit, we store our things,
floor plans for green houses, future seeds,
a box of letters with the pages kept empty for suspense,
On the other side of the forest where the waters have gone dry,
where wolf and mineral and white trail recede,
and one thinks suddenly, “Am I allowed this contemplation?”
Who does it feed?
Not the river.
Then you pack in those blurry edges
beaming from reed heart, shattered root.
I know the routine- we are in need,
and cannot only scratch the memory,
that is the road we have been down,
teaching ourselves only the necessary (little) requirement.
Where does one find water from there?
In the reserve voice (sweet) of the other?
Continued then, back into the punctuated Empire,
with arms full of produce, paper hearts,
those rescue whistles.
This is why we last,
as each-other(s), as endurable(s),
holding hands as we cut the bread,
feeding the story, and then ourselves.