Sucking apples from fingers
slurping, animal
Tree to limb to Tree –
Christ…
Sweet Mother, a pillar through our static,
pull us,
root us with our uprooting,
breathe speech and resolve and movement to our leaves.

And of breaths…
Whose idea was it
to steal the stars from our air-sky-silverwind tick tock space
and leave a vast slither sound
where once was a fortune dance, a crowd of little lights?