May I do this with your arm,
you said.
Not ~Can I~,
but ~May I~.
And then, with your hands,
you pressed down hard
into the years,
prying up stones
that were cold and complacent.
The roots of moles and strawberries.
And “What?”, I thought.
What are you looking for?
This hurts, yes.
***
Aremyfeetofftheground 