ROAMING

listening to the ticking rain

like saliva on mud

how impossible, to look at the land

you looking into me

becoming the valley

my hand glides against grass

lush sprouting on arm

rock can split wood

you, iron, can soften the earth

in the silence of your look

feel bone, to muscle, to air

ever your chest rises to breath

call to devotion as a lamb to bleat

solid walls, to you don’t defeat

higher view from my meadow to see

bending blues to open my eyes

fire to force my tongue

without earth, a man dies

without love, to death, one has clung

 

©PseudoBop 2018 All rights reserved.

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