In the grove of trees there is total darkness, shrouded
by the curvature of the hills and concealed by the community
garden, the back of the baseball dugout, the stone wall
around the stone house. Why bother parking the car
when seclusion waits right there out in the open for us?
I teach you the practice before you learn the words.
I have dirt on my knees below the skin; I have a blanket of clover
pressed into the book of my hips, splayed with spine inverted.
In the hazel of morning, you are the only one allowed to touch my face
and I am the only one who can ask you to open your eyes. Adjust to the dark
and see where pale light remains in halo around the crown of the branches.
I’m surprised how softly you trill in your pleasure, breath harmonious
with the breeze, the insects, the distant world, the immanent earth.
You fell from the sky and now lie grounded in bliss and emptiness
and resilience. There could never be too much of you
or too long of a pause between questions.