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 changeing while you sleep

your blood resting


Leaving you ashen

I think of death

A violent one

the plane being ripped apart

And we loose 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