Don’t recite the unwritten histories of sediments
or instruct me in decoding the script of the moraines
until we’re deadlocked in rush hour and you can sing
the anthems of third shift to the syncopation of a train track.
We can lie out in smog and fog, drift through fluids wherever,
if we’ve heard the same one song that rocks the San Andreas
and determines the curvature of magnetic fields at the outskirts
of the visible sky, sailed across event horizons into the vortices
of gopher holes and storm drains and all creatures’ resonating tracheae.
