by Ann Corley Silverman
The sibilant ‘s’ slides quietly into the open oil of a liquid landfall.
A slight growl pushes air into what is round beneath the feet.
The dental stability of final sound an anchor on planet underfoot.
But here, the liquid.
No labial pout, no punctuation.
So much for definition.
Worms turn in the soil of our syntax, enriching excrementally
the nature of understanding.
All lips and liquid boundaries.
Mouthfuls of earth in endless periods.
This life. And this life. And this life.
A surface of soil, at midpoint to tree, cushions the foot.
Some surface in a plowed field sucks at the boot and removes it.
Some surfaces slip inside and under.
Feet sink into surf.
Toes splayed in mud and sand grow no roots.
Attempting, though, a pirouette,
Striking some balance of the awe-struck.