In cradling air is the rock of salt-sea brandishing.
White-capped waves wreck crashing into harbor.
The worm-holed topsoil inhales, churning over saw-mill philosophy.
Subsistence unscrolls in solar arrays, with the ocean voice in a word, stone in the open gone round.
Sun steps down the silk wick into a kernel of corn.
Earth’s seen from space, a massive blue future light the night rolls over slowly in floods of shivering and calm. On the ground, petroglyphs chart their fissile bones. Unknowing draws back in close-quarter weave.
The stay of sleep propagates.
Those who’ve grieved in a bed have had trees and their blankets that softened. Where cars have been driven, the sky takes longer than this life to exhale.