By | 1 February 2022
my grandfather told me that at dusk / the lizards make their way down to kiss the floor / paying tribute to the dust that birthed them / cursed tongues flicker, lapping dirt / before the slipping sun chases them back up the walls / the sun–with its own rotation of high corners and dusty floors / and the undisturbed splatter of fallen fruit in my grandfather’s garden / tomorrow new stains will replace them / but tonight / a wood spirit sits on my chest / digging for her lost roots / in the sigh of my lungs / I asked my grandfather once / why we close our eyes when we sleep / he tells me / because we open them tomorrow / today—the rain sweet as the purple stain of duhat / left a mist that clung to my arms / and the back of my throat like the crescents of loam / framing fingertips, after a day of repotting / for his last nights we ask grandfather / why he cannot sleep / he says / too light / they shutter his bedroom / sealing out the summer blaze and electric hum of lamp post and headlight / but I can’t help thinking of / gravity and the pull of waking / of lizards compelled to descend and rise / like sun and shadow / and the circular chase /of trampled fruit and spirit / too light / he says / and I think of cloud and suspended rain / the dust unkissed / the still branches / wide eyes / the absence of the need to rest

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