cut my tongue

it was not something I could mouth it was something I could
cut my tongue on, this peering through
things and words and daily stuff
for you
and not knowing the action nor intent
i lifted wads of leaves
flattened by weight of snow
though the weather was too warm
year round where I’d been dozing
underneath
you might have been there
but weren’t, not in my land, not
that side of awake, which isn’t
and isn’t to say it was terrible
it was a bland plain
brand of bland plain, the lowlying landmarks were trip hazards
in the tussock, at my feet
and everward
no wildflowers grew when it rained
they’d long been pruned
tweezed till they decided it best
to bloom in cracks
pretty in the face of stone walls
i found them fuller by far
found you fast where you had been while I wasn’t
cut my tongue on stalk and blade
learned
in that slow coming
quick delivered kiss of dusk
learned my taste first then yours
fields grab our ankles, flowerful
tickling wheat
ginestra
allowed wildness
to thread the veins of home
plangent and tangy