Moon-cold, a patch of grey-lit grass

repels all but monochrome.

In the pale late-time, stars balance

restless on my reachy fingertips.

Even the water’s thirsty round here.

Smooth as “I don’t need you”

land recoils, buries energy

well-deep, beyond touch. Safe.

Straight up as an “I don’t want you”

big red soil says no to my sky-tracks.

On ancient dim-lit rock ochre draws

the sorry times, the hero times.

It maps how snaky water

slid away, called ancestors

to spiral out, spin wider journeys.