Soil is an abstract thought six miles below, 

taproot quick nurtured by a temporary pillow.

Flat white paint on walls, white ceiling, white door,

white trim, white floor, drapeless windows open, 

room bare. Flat white paint on bookshelves 

around the room’s perimeter. Hands run slowly

the rounded edges of the shelves, bookless.

 

Next door, field of tall weeds, brown in middle 

summer. Street, light asphalt, limestone curbed, 

baking. White, brown, grey, familiar in hot sun’s 

glare. Pollen fills windblown air, sky demands 

rain, hail, lightning if necessary. No port open. 

House whispers where the head lays down to 

sleep, hand careful, outside the blanket.

 

Rock walls rise from the dirt floor, light reflects 

yellow off stone, reflects yellow to & from our eyes,

a torch? Hand held high, lead people, not family, 

to the back of the cave, turn & lose the faces. 

First comes winter, second comes spring,

third comes summer. Bone-sealed, I want to

pass my fingers across what I see, know what I see.