Does it mean that here we are,
forever walking on concrete.
And then we die and grow
into the shag carpet of soil & grass
that the forests seem to be.
Or does it mean earthen,
grounded, lonely, a poem.
My wrist hurts as I write.
That is woolly earth to me.
And music, and the smell of
cheap wine in my kitchen.
And watching my friend
of only a few days
read outside the Hirshhorn.
I laid on the grass and
thought about sneezing:
how all those droplets return
or disappear somewhere:
into the sky or concrete, or
the woolly earth.
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