what shape does your growing take?
what is it you’re reaching toward, or away from?

tell me the ground beneath your feet does not mar you.
tell me the earth is soft and dry in it’s deadness.

tell me, what does this death feel like for you?

what shape does your body take as it moves through and over
and into this death?

i don’t mean to be grotesque.
i don’t speak the language you recite.

i cannot see your shadow play, cannot fill
the empty seats, cannot study the role you play
or the role that playing takes in your death.

i can only follow behind.

i can look for the figures casting the shadows
but that does not mean i can find them.

the wind holds nothing but offers everything
and i hold myself open to receiving.

i could survive on your faith if you left it here for me
i could search endlessly in hopes of finding

i haven’t felt sunset’s embrace
but i have stretched like the arms of dawn reaching

in the heart of your temple can i offer supplication?
whisper to me in dreams, speak a language we both understand.

tell me, does the rain bring life to these barren fields?
tell me
in your dreams
do you grow?