I didn’t

realize there was no grass.

There was dirt to

be swept up

to chant 

dirt. I have

seen her in

the glance (glass)

of a sun,

in the light

up on the dock.

Under the dirt,

she calls the salt

rock she forgot:

it’s time

for the ground

to be beaten by my foot

and the more

it happens the more

I want it to. I didn’t

realize how dry

it could be next 

to the sea

(we say ocean).

How she has

returned, rejecting water

for the gravel our feet

make, how it is time

for us to smile,

to break the rock in two,

to pull up the roots,

and kick

the hill as

acorns have stormed

the ground (I

mean oak).

I know nothing

of this, I grasp

the dirt I

thought was rock.

I didn’t realize how

much I would

want the water

in the olive grove,

how much

the tree-tops

make a field

that is raised, how

salt pervades,

how I may

have forgot

how much

was one.