The Shape of Things

Where a shrine lies buried
below the body’s surface—every act of love
reaches toward the subterranean
lay-line. Even kids playing bloody knuckles
on the school bus, a radical attempt at breaking
into the humming garden where all seasons
drape like silk over the shape of things.
Just as the spine of a lover leaving
carries the declination of a loyalty
to the joints, tendons, disks, places where
we swivel, turning toward the next moment
like a field of sunflowers rising, necks stretched,
our faces seeds, opening.