May 19

If you were to draw a circle around which your feet existed
and from there, from your patch of land, dig down into
the crust, magma, mantle, coming closer minute
by minute to the center, you’d find each of us

born of angles, becoming lines and then
a dot on the center of what we best
believe to be hell or metal, heavy
part of this oblong sphere

on which we procreate.
Think of the yellow
of an egg, seed
of an apple


and then draw
yourself back out
at first imperceptibly
thin, widening to a width

less than twelve inches, shell
of the egg on which we exist, then
keep going, claim your spot of the sky
wider and wider, up to the infinite, space

enough for all of us to not have to quarrel over
whose name is on the deed to this patch of earth,
enough for us to overcome the gravity of our measely
bodies, that hold us here, planted, pulling on each other.



A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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