I am for sitting
I sit on a pale blue dot, I’ve heard, upside-
down. The caterpillar crawling through the chipped
paint counts each legstep-calm, but the people do
not, I’ve noticed the tapping, the drinking,
the spit flying through the air circular
with the spinning monotony, somehow landing
where an ant can suck up a dew drop of alcohol.
Knuckles pop, they scrape letters under my skin
means something, and I wish I had fingernails
to dig in to the spiraling grass.