earthquake
It’s habit
for the tectonic shifts
to move my body about,
the fissures whistle out
echoing the songs of
fractured shells
It’s habit
to watch the incense dance
along my rhythm
it sings to the wind
and tells the breeze when to swell
when to whisk my hair
out of my face
and out of my eyes
It’s habit
for smoke to sway
and cloud as it desires
or dissipate as new leaves
grow and sip warm tea,
honey coating my lips
- the smooth and sticky touch
only attachments can bring
It’s habit
to tend toward the soap
as long rains exfoliate
I fortify and layer
to keep my skin mine
It’s habit
when precessesion tells
again and again
that clocks will agree to angle,
that aged print will tell
of my days prior and looming
Billowing ribbons line
these patterns
but the deer holds its gaze
behind the glass gate of the night
Under one still moon
I can try and crack the paper-mache pane
and sit in the Earth's rifts
to release possessions
that were never meant to be kept
prior version: people and their habitual ways
