Moccassin

This plane
never leaves;

walk on the ground,
human,

brothers & sisters
will look up

to you, Kirlian-
prints on the ceiling,

something
to hold

onto,
you,

kept from drifting
away,

gravity is
the love

of the dead
from the rocks,

silt, veins
below ground,

harder stuff
still

at the still
center, to

which we are
all implored,

held fast, to the flaming
core, perhaps the furnace--

heaven what's
above,

clashing strata,
the heaving planks

of home, we are
chucked

like funeral dirt
by its shrugs.

Walk on
the ground, human,

burier,
holding true

to your roots,
or to the roots

of sturdy trees,
stay close

to your bitter name,
feel it

convince the spine
of its last

home, the long stint
below,

in the hard garden
that shouldn't exist

at all.