Eyes full of splinter sun, tripping over the same roots protruding from the breathing moist

Origin that I never bend down quite far enough to touch, and crouching, with my

Temple to the throbbing baker's yeast, the farmer's gold, I listen for the rush of sea below the

Meadow on my chest, midday and cricket-scented eveningtimes with straw that brushes collarbone

And leads me by the hand around my torso's sundial, I return your gravity with surging silence