The summer heartbeat of a field gone golden in its age:
The dry tremble of a breath, the sun sighing
Through the planet's skin of air, miles above our hands
And our sweat, and the words we kick dirt across.
I am not this connected, to feel black space
Pressing its cold god eye down through me,
But I am wearing my weight, this gravity
(A human feature), something we
Forget, or never knew was birthed by metal
And magnetism, and brilliant, anonymous formulae.
I am wearing your flesh, unearned, mask-like,
A medal sprung from your blood.
I am wearing your time, unraveled and resewn,
A glinting stretch of galaxy grown from you: your shadow
And shout, your bending back, your truth, your patient hands
And favorite verses, and same refrains, and small, heroic signatures.