A poem of imprint
I am the earth ball spinning,
hot at the core and holding life.
They roll out of me,
believing themselves sovereign in the waves,
as if diving under the surface separates them from my gravity,
as if their laughter isn’t tethered to my mycelium.
Their footprints sink and fill and bubble-flat —
my very existence an umbilical.
I stack their impressions into my skin
like periwinkle clams pushing into sand.