Squeeze, Shut

There is juice in this stone
if you stare at its hurt long enough.

The craggy, small porticos 
are entryways to hallways

that extend into geological time
and eon-wide manifest laughter.

Yellow is the only color
that can jangle a stuck throat

back open to the oranges 
that spread sunset wings

behind mistless eyes. 
Dig for clay.

Receive damp under your fingernails,
commit to the lamplit frigid earth

your mine and your limp spine.