STATE OF GRAVITY

We are not spirits only
when gravity works
flesh into dirt, pulls

bones into the womb
of all things as roots cling
and search for water.

Like drought-dead oaks
with loosened bark, clumps
of mistletoe hanging black

on the other side of Christmas,
Apollo’s hot breath
on our burnt lips kissed

with summer’s revenge.
It is not the dark rain
that dissipates strength,

weakens wooden handles:
the hands-on tools
for arms and legs

as hoe and shovel twist
and bow, decompose
beneath unrelenting heat.

We are not spirits yet
to defy mortal forces:
the bodies politique

that wear us down to find
our own ascension within
delirium under the sun.

We will walk with gods
soon enough and envy
this state of gravity.