Retreat under roof of self. Under vault of ribs and spine.
My blood creeps along a dark endless track. On quiet feet.
Such a bulk of being to regulate. Disorder stalks then day and night. They stalk it back.
My shell never slips askew. Pupil never dims… Yes, the mould sometimes clings to my back as I rise in April. Yes, I carry the dishabille of earth for a time.
Shadows thicken under shrubs…
Walk through the holes in their attention.
So it is with humans. Quickness draws their eye. Entangles their attention. What they notice they call reality. But reality is a fence with many holes, a net with many tears. I walk through them slowly. My slowness is deceptively fast.
Because I have slow animals and the earth on my brain.