roots, room & a heartbeat irrigation
I'm sawtooth and mend from works of water. a passing night or two, or maybe even three can appear a blank page. pushing smoke and nail bite, spit and whisking it aside. every cough a brushstroke backwards. I'm burning threads and more than likely bringing out my own dead. this carton is my pinto. everytime - I turn my hands 'round from a dirtpile to contrast what creases are there. they say you can see your future in your hands, but I'm documenting another's dog-eared palms. you've got so many because your skin just doesn't want to forget where its already been. I've seen where the crows have been standing still in corners and I just figure you smile more than most people. I snapped my canoe right in half on your rocky heart. Now all I'm left with an oar and a need for repair. I mow arms with the ends of my hands and mold my own spoons with the land of our bodies. You have to till the earth before you harvest, and tapping feet packs soil. Tight spaces beg for roots, room & a heartbeat irrigation. This tongue was made for the ants that were marching down your trachea, I ache to steal every other breath in exchange for one of my own.
