Leaves of grass, my chest, is to your chest, as; gently soft and pressed of light. And though a thousand tiny green, one root only beats at their center. One root red. One root pushing of difficult life stuff, out, out. Pushing and pushing. To lip and finger equally difficult.

(I watch the streetlights as they pass over my hand while driving in the dark Bellingham feels beneath me big and sleeping in almost spring I put my fingers through its mouth and I cough a star)