Root Cap

Blown Away

an orgasm is what a sun surrenders to creatures satisfied by the brace of stars

what creatures surrender to god is what air surrenders to wings or what a body surrenders to dying—a desire lovers embrace & thereby surrender to this an organism

Yuba

Like the river’s way in want of rain, we go. We come, nascent as fire in the
fuel-heavy height. Thrown into a valley of wind as inflamed mud. A brown fire
of flood that burns to a sea. Only to go, we in a hot wind the dying tree sucks in.
We, who will come for a century of buried seed. Who go from deep canyons
of elder wood only to come preeminently as radiant things. On a mountaintop. Shrouded in a thunder gust. Spent & combustible, the sapless that suck
at tinder light. Endlessly rocking, those that nurse from teats of cloud
to come, to go like the withdrawn, old sea across dry grass.

Water

Funnel Weaver

what waits in a hole is the freight of being not the fate
of us—we’re the burden of naught bound to what comes
& goes in this world of holes in love with flow

A Cell

Still Love

The touch of a lover every in argillite where the trace of a river is remembered
like a wind? Lovers the resignation? Never to forget the catastrophes—
stones, these surrendered sediments in spent floods. Those in this sea of time
interred by the countless dead.

Never to have heaved & embraced the sex of a glacier. Never to have drained—
we, the withdrawn, open, erect, sometimes breathless. Never like a continent?
Can an old earth, ravished by memory, recall no lover like us though we have all
come?

Touched it incessantly?