thread

you can say

do not tread on me,

now—but later you will be the soil

under feet. together we make a mandala

in the grass: veins of blood and chlorophyll

meeting & mixing. some thing greater is drinking

us, the cup of us, the gin of us, the high water content,

the root. we are made from the ground, made to return

to our hobbit holes where we will lay down our bodies only;

our spirits, which never fully dwelt with us here, will shed their

shells and fly high, look down on the thread of people coming and

going, long lines crossing over our bones, treading lightly, jump-roping,

dancing, grieving, sewing, stomping, pulling, tying, digging—stuck on the

drunken back-side of this surface: just for the time being.

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