Faults Are Present

This present basin
whose floor is marked
with low ridges
and the plate
that moves wreath-like

How fingers meet
how bones in the hands
are loose they rattle
and the earth’s sediment forms
magnets in green-violet ears
hover where north and east
are unzipped as a ribcage
pulled from nights like these
the plate is hot
and eroding borders

How words get inside
slippery
forming as faces
orange garnets to swallow
summer-lit bruising to God
to the I and the am