Hanging on my sides there might be fig seeds somebody spat out 
millions of years ago, fine strands of dust cover me like a hand-woven 
blanket, for a while now when I try to remember the breathing of the 
land above that’s passed me by and the bright light shining down, my 
sides hurt 

I’m not trying to say I’ve existed so long I can’t remember the quiet 
noon, the work of keeping the body open in cracks of time, dead skin 
flakes landing from the sky open with long travel day and night, the 
ceiling grows remote 

Blue dust, fine-grained fungus, my good soil, the leaves and stems of the 
figs inside me reach infinitely into phone lines, across the universe, and 
at some noontime, they will lightly stroke a prone woman’s eyelashes. 
All the while I dream of that brilliant touch of the hand, all the while 
nobody visits me