so much comes back to the tongue-
the beginnings of moving
of noticing myself move
the beginnings of falling
i see the color of your face changing while you sleep
your blood resting
escaping
leaving you ashen
i think of death
a violent one
the plane being ripped apart
and we lose our hands
our arms
our legs
if there’s too much water
you can't harvest the wheat.
clouds surround us
visual entertainments
with volume and points of space delaying proximity
and pushing the stuff of fantasy forward
as an empathetic gesture.
the bend around Diamond Creek
Is the one i always remember
the one with its vegetable stands
and its Children of God.
our tongues
our arms
our legs
twirling together in elegant spirals as they fall
below the blue.