Some tunnels are dark even though they are known. Like: how to choose my lunchtime apple. Like: which direction to run. And time is contracting in a way you didn’t warn me of. I’d be upset, but my body pieces are communing in ways you also didn’t warn of. I commune my eyes with my tongue, ears with my fingers. Flexing paths I did not know filled this body. One morning I find that my toes are conversing with my knees. They take me running in another direction and I find these things: goats that bleat, a worm filled fig, lupine-lady on her bicycle. Tonight, you told me to watch the red clay moon. So I’ve arranged my legs under my body and watch with my eyes closed. So under the wind my skin is shifting wisteria petals. So I soften against the ground, under your red clay moon. So I’m bare pieces: a gathering on my lawn, spread before this house. And I understand that I’m becoming reckless with my body in ways you’d scold me for. But I have changed the frequency of my ears and I can only hear the red clay moon.