There is a heaviness to my hands;
pulled flush with the countertop
or, palms arched over
a keyboard, fingertips cocked,
itching for some combustion.
Let me tell you about the man that earth
He was mixed
and minerals before his time.
He ingested dirt, blended with the residuals
of everything that lived
before. He choked on the fragments
until his face
and putrified. After thousands of years
of compression and heat
his pupils were pressed
into obsidian — volcanic mirrors
waiting to witness the evolution of all things.
Megannums went by and nothing was seen.
His eyes hugged so tightly
to the rocks around them that one day
they compressed into a hot, pulsating
core, churning for everything else.
My fingers slumber over the keys.