I am low to the ground. I live in
the loam yet click and whirr beneath
layers of ocean. My life is long, and longer still
with my eyes closed. Short to me
is the breaths which fog on my surfaces.
What is the difference between my eyes
and the sound of walnuts cracking,
or else the stirrings of love. Differentiate
me from the stalks and strings
of plants: I grow and yet know no answer
to the question of altitude.
I have heard the knockings of wood
though trace my lineage in the asphalt.
There are things that separate
under the light. I am one of them.