Kneeling by the dry pond, her shins
scratched pink are losing heat to space.
Her knuckles blossom violet, their nobbled bodies
flagrant; crude as mistakes.
They are loaded dice as her ring slips off.
This is how stones are made:
Earth compresses in her fist.
The box is a folded surface
just like her.
Soil shifts like a living thing
making speeches. Her arm is a thick trunk
with its tongue in the dirt,
knows Earth is a safe place
where time is measured
by warmth instead of numbers. If you dig
deep enough, warmth is constant
and under all this concrete there’s the quickening.