Man tugs an endless vine and he won’t be able to swallow or dodge
falling walnuts or beetles. Hands from holes in leaves act out against him.
There is soil in grooves in skin, in knuckle creases.
I think I am a leaf but keep stroking
Man’s rib cage and putting letter
on letters until I direct a whole wall to encase me.
If there were teeth, each mouth would be gritted.
My paragraph will pass through, unlike tree nuts,
like the line
between leaves and sun bleeding over by the river.
We sleep through the most fragile courses.
Numb hands bent at the wrist stroke
our shoulders with fingertips, while dew is forming.
While snakes and wasps slow down, our skin unhinges, laughing;
Focus on breezes until
even wind is no longer tangible. Focus on holes in a floor.