DIRECTIONS: For She, Kneeling

She’s on knees, left of daisies, floored to be her grass.

Light under her. Unaware of her. But in love.

To her right, a door, held by its own devices, listens, unhinges.

If the time was noon, it wouldn’t be right. So it’s midnight. And if the moon had its way, it’d be in, not 221463 miles above, her.

Tomatoes pool in a bowl by her sink.

Let us think, how she handled them, earlier.
Let us think, how heart-like the break was, first resistant, then slid open.

In the back right corner, a light-knot sees her, listens.
Tomatoes, first, then her back.

Very similar, light-knot thought, to each other.

Bless curved backs, whirled tomatoes!

To be heard on her
Tongue—

St. Anthony, performer of miracles
St. Anthony, performer of miracles
St. Anthony, performer of miracles
St. Anthony, performer of miracles

To be heard on her. To be heard. To be heard on her. Heard.

Heard, half-bitten. Moon has things to do. Moon has willows to wander, pine to petition for. But to be heard on her. Yes. Herds have their languages. Remember the sound of each foot, follow each to the sea, if they had to. Drown if plausible. To be heard.

Light, under her. Unaware.

By her, daisies. Tomatoes.
Above her, wandering light-knot. Moon.

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