Born in a small town, walking paths
on imagined maps. Grown where margins
meet green fields, within seed coats
and insect rinds.
A screen, to protect
nocturnal animals from our thoughts.
Which must not be documented, only
half-breathed into sheets.
To sink into plum bark,
moth wing, a loop to lean into. An imprint
echoes through top soil, between layers
of sun and water, where our voices
leave deposits too faint
to dig up.
In that way,
the fields incubate an opening, a closing,
a flowering underground.
Very faint vibrations, very
faint, and at home, the blades
of grass have started to count again,
counting faintly but just enough to extend
space beneath story lines.
The way space
evolves between roots
growing toward hardpan,
the way limits