After the rain, the body

I do not remember kneeling,

but find my knees are sodden.

The grass parts like a sentence 

forgotten halfway through.

Something moves beside me 

– it does not name itself. 

The water is a shallow pool

but it holds me; touches me

without want, only weight.

A stem presses my lip; I let it.

In this rush of sediment, I am

found – more as field than man.

A chitinous clicking passes over

my foot. I say nothing. I do not

cry.  The forest goes on making

its wet decisions. I cannot know

fully other than that I am not

apart. I do not need to name it 

– what touches me, only stay

with this flood filling my mouth.