Feet find an exile path. Hands pluck a life-sized heart of stone from its downy green nest –before last months sheep came– before all this stubble &hay for backyards.
Feet find an exile path. Eyes plead for cloud cover, a strewn sympathy for this dry creek bed, but the sky’s full of itself &chokes on a perpetual wash of its own perfect cup.
Feet find an exile path. Tongues pray for a touch, or maybe a rain to baptize dogs of flesh &fill empty vessels which are vapors (or even less than that) every morning beneath this cloudless composure of poised light.
My Earth for the Daily Post