The cajoling is divine.
And I walk on hands and knees:
eating grass,
sighing deeply,
back exposed.
Waiting for a weight,
a boulder of granite,
an anvil of muscle,
a mass of heavy moss
musky with Earthly roots.
The soul,
the flash of the nonhuman,
slinks into a revelry,
basking,
geisha-like,
in the sun that glints
off your teeth.
A cavernous aroma
sweeping silently
across my stuttered sleep.
When dirt and grime is all you know–
you burn it down,
and play in the ashes.
The transfer of heat and power:
a dance,
a shared drowning,
a memory.
