You don’t say — you make silver
your curious glide and then follow by heart
a creaturely-instinct’s road.
Broad
blades of grass you bend bridge-wise deeply in two
with the weight of your cargo-shell
till you find yourself back
where you once went wrong
to start over again with a marginally altered slant.
Rain is your birthday.
If the whole world were rain,
you would waste not a moment of your life
“indoors” but instead
go daylightly on —
always the minimal animal —
feasting outstretched stalk-eyes on Earth’s succulent Vegetable Realms.
Chinaman Creek 