(un)moved

you are unmoved by the moving earth.

The language we speak has little inflection;
I understand through your eyes only

the auxiliary verbs help
validate each emotion:
you feel what you feel because you feel it.

However the english language makes it hard:
the clouds clouded your ability
to glue the glue to the heel of my heel- 
toe my feet together one more time
tell her to let go and I swear my palms are
open

cupping blue-gold flames
chilly next to cucumber-white tea
the insistent taste of incredible things
happening in the world.

We walked to fish for sea bass and god
I am sick of losing people this way.

By the creek an expression of complex
tenses seems to mean we are back
to the ledge a million miles from
the Wasatch and its red rocked canyons

a current too strong to pause and realize.

Pull me from sleep, again, summer 2011
and the wind slows down for a place so high
as if the atmospheric pressure drains itself
to a sameness.

The earth at eye level is put on mute
refuses for once to dance easy.

"I don't understand what you're saying"
how many feet high? I'm on a beach
in Santa Monica just ate an artisan egg sandwich
now trying to save your life through a flip phone

falling
slowly is what I imagine the planes do.
When the headwinds knocked the neck
into the thick air someone cracks a smile

Somewhere we're about 50 years old
driving the road in rural Maine,
snowflakes make amends with the windshield
the disappearing of apartments
the first clue of this beauty. 

Remember though, we came in jigsaw pieces,
creek-breeze rising
of perfect melodies next to the thirds

falling
fast. Hallowing the final story out
on the ledge, on the mountain,
on your fire escape
why bother escaping
from an earth that will stay unmoved?