Grass is task, stone its own reason
and earth is birth or stillbirth.
Mown, the grass too becomes its own
but is lost to true location.
Stone, though, is only where it is:
if split, it doubles worlds,
when shattered, scatters them equally.
Earth has always been incest,
orgiastic. It holds as plastic,
and also organic, yet it folds
more violently upon itself,
fuckingly, than any sea.