I hear love in your feet,     14 times
the density of water

the Earth was born, and dawn,
no history is immune from ends

Continental Drift

Once it was thought that mountains were analogous to the wrinkles of dried fruit. We know better now that our core is not shrinking, rather, our cement is stacking. Stars blush in the nightlight and we know now how Earth throbbed her plated skull and slip-crack crafted a peak; a semiotic showdown for twin towers. Pikes of construction dirt echo the knuckled horizon, urgent fingers tremble hands, muting eons; shifting is the yellow grass buttering wind—A crane stretches, lifts its cable-hooked stone, a claw splits the dirt, sounding the wide mouthed terrain.