centuries gone in the snap of the sky we work so hard to make ourselves heard, willing our screaming shouts onto wild grass, dreaming of lawns irrevocable suburbian tenderness can you twilt in the sky chariot? how do your serpentine digits juggle the grim reality of deathing who do we turn to when god is in the air, holy particles stuffing our lungs consummating the air with airlessness and we’re out of oxygen and the roots are floundering and the wilts are branching and my eyes turn inward to the tears that wont come, not here, not now.