Tangled Gravities

each person has their own seed of gravity
they are growing up
and in my place as fellow gardener
I notice my hands,
always soiled by the soils of everyone;
and you, it might be, that you get soil from me
stuck to you.

soon you find your seed
sprouts strange leaves you never knew 
it should. 

these tangled gravities worry me,
the gardener of sounds in me
vibrates with a kind of
unsure resound.

those echoes shiver in roots
and shoots
and it becomes impossible to tell
where you and I end
because we began
two shiverings
and then we crossed
and the hug from that conversation
became a hollow
where neither of us can tell apart
our intersticed memberings.

these beautiful gravities
I touch the weavings of,
make me some body.

how human.