I can’t speak for you, would struggle to describe you,
but really I just want to touch in with lasting things.
Vegetable matter solidifies into the substance of my meat.
You know what I mean.
Irregular impacts create my irregular contours
and then I look at them and think, beautiful.
I do the same with you.
Perhaps you rolled down from one of the high points
I can see from here, or you bubbled up from below,
sheared and scorched in no time at all.
Now I think you are a created thing
(you are created one way or another),
but now I think you were a poured liquid
(a poured liquid one way or another),
but now I think you are a human thing,
a liquid mixed and poured by some person around here,
then eaten away, kicked to the path edge,
and still resisting the return to liquid.
I can’t speak for you, but I’m trying
to touch in with lasting things, adjusting my footing
to anticipate the big wave, not something approaching,
but just in case it’s beyond the horizon.
I washed you, set you on a desk. We are
solid, faulted and still. Where could I
wind up when the earth shifts again?