Picking up silenceand dusting off its globe (transparent)becomes more difficult than tucking the conversationinto place.
Hands are our obsession—connect flesh and shadowto one point, space allows sensation to overtakerational abhorrence, fear floatsaway like dandelion silk.
Body—thick and rough,brittle skin—rippled like a pecan,knitted fabric of protection. In morningsthe hard-packed soul seepsaway. Generous arms weave
in movements of all that is outside—they show emotion,leaving tears/blooming fog. A body at home. Shaded.There is no escaping our desire totouch trees—mimic their rough skinin dreams, callused rings surviving rainand torturing wind. Burnt scabs left crushed on the cement.
The body itself is the wound,deep and deserving, skin/hair/breathall edges of the scab. Muscletension/eye strain, pain beneaththe teeth, gentle reminders of the harbor itself.Pain is the silence we pour listening into.
No concept of limits—trees grow sky-limb and earth-limb.Just reach and breathe upward toward rememberinghow atmospheres touched, grew from one mouth to another,oxygen and carbon dioxideelemental twins, carbon copies, breaths—shared, exhaled.
Cut down, sand until they collapseinto beauty, then bury them—deadwith our deadselves,and our living have room,much room, to walk, but no shade.Who will quit rising, which dead will bury the last?
Tree-center hollowed outto encase another emptied crust—interior becomes, again, interior.
Photo by antonio molinari on Unsplash