Moon-cold, a patch of grey-lit grass
repels all but this monochrome.
In the pale late-time, stars balance
restless on my reachy fingertips.
Even the water’s thirsty round here.
Smooth as “I don’t need you”
land recoils, buries energy
well-deep, beyond touch. Safe.
Straight up as an “I don’t want you”
big red soil says no to my sky-tracks.
On ancient dim-lit rock ochre draws
the sorry times, the hero times.
It maps how snaky water
slid away, called ancestors
to spiral out, spin wider journeys.
