Not yet the years worked down to sand. Or earth, packed and paved, longing to shift or breathe. Not yet soil, broken and tilled, sprouting to green. Not still the motion of scrape, of grind. The moment of hands, cupping. The moment that called skin cells to linger. For sweat to salt the nooks and crannies. Not now in the dead breath of building. In the kingdom of drawer and false light. Why not just rise through clay, through sand? The layers that learned us, then shifted away. Think of the god we could turn to. The hand that might find us. A voice to know and name us. From there the world leans closer, not away.