A Mouthful of Soil

 

A treeseed and a mouthful of

Soil is the kiss with which you

Lay upon our mutual departure.

 

Working with hands your hands

As you do in times which tighten

Your brow and cheeks and breast

 

Tightness holding your movements

Motions which in loose moments 

   of which there are

   several and they 

   betray you they betray 

   only your notions

   of what you are

Alone with no witness to such moments

You crush acorns and buckeyes beneath

An old maple rolling pin.

 

You leach from flours their acrid mineral

The memory of roots grasping bedrock

Teastained water which gathers below

A ring in the tub where I lie for a moment

A moment elongated until deemed 

Notable to the neighbors or similarly 

Intolerable to your heart.

 

You bathe me.

 

Sifting these floured seeds upon me

Like lye over a ruminating stench

Salt over conquered earth

Nitrate on fallowed ground.

 

As the muscles in your face confine

Damwater which pulses between

Breaths and heartbeats

Explosions dulled beneath each breath

Knocking at places and parts internal

Parts small enough to ignore at

Least in the moment and

Your tight focus

Your dry flower

Its depth of field now

Vapid and thus infinite

 

With the same knife that prepared countless

Roasts and feasts of muscle and fowl

You dress me.

 

And dressed like ancient royalty borne likewise

In their solitudes to a pinpoint of light played

By a source deemed to be heavenly

In your own solitude

Eyes leathered over

  did the neighbors break first or was it

  your dam

And your own eyes tight as with your visage

Entire but

The dam is leaking

Its fissures are showing

I am the vessel of your acorn floured hands

Those which rolled out with an implement of

The same woody flesh which my presence aims

To produce

Which I will restore by your effort

At your silent behest

 

It is our parting embrace even as our

Accessible distance decreases with

Every handful which blankets me

Though this is a gift to keep me cold

And not to tamp recovery of breath

And heartbeat 

 

Patting me into place for as

Long as the mountain will hold me

In the same shameless undersky embrace

Which once carried us together 

 

Print your sign the flesh of your

Sign selfsame which is a sign

None may forge but the security is

Knowing none would want to

In this rest

In this you rest

And continue rolling out flourcakes which

Bitter bite your tongue when the

Dam or rolling pin keeps its last

Utility from you you will know where

To go and it will be my parting nod

Merely so soundly so roundly so 

 

Its incompleteness a last bit of

Honesty

 

These thoughts belong to neither of us and

So who is it who keeps them

 

And thus kept

Yon mountain

It floods.