In retrospect, I sort of feel like this wants to be prose rather than poetry, but eh, here it is as a day.
DAY EIGHTY-SIX (2015-7-3)
Everything exists as a historical register. We write records scrawled in lines of dirt,
in the spread of five fingers against sand. Our flesh leaves behind the small dust motes of evidence,
a criminal accounting of the lives we have thrown against the waves and pulled, gasping, onto shores.
Our backs of necks crawl with knowing how to read without being taught:
feet shift so slightly from the warning signs of sidewalk, carry us through the known places,
turn ourselves to orient to the rising face of day as we toss in bed for one last gasp.
The light pulls itself in languid strokes across the pool of blankets. It twists, cursive,
in the unbidden places, thick and heavy and insistent in its calligraphy on the skin
and it writes us, old, in the viscera of lines beside eyes and lips.
We are resonance of the earth, soil under our nails, in our guts, crowded, heavily into the spaces of our mouths;
we are the last great hope of mountains, of stars, of the smallest fibers of Terra thrown, spinning,