The veins on the earth are the palms of your hands, and our fists still turn into themselves like when we were babies.
All life long, clay by the river moves us
the way music moves us, and we are carried.
All life long, water and feather ask us to dance.
Soot and gravel and oil is what we are, and it falls off of my knees when I get up from praying for you.
I leave what’s left on my skin where it’s at.