it's always the first of something

Sometimes, most times, when I am full on streched out flat,
palms round, fingers curled like dead brittle insect legs
on surfaces that don't really matter, because they change
and I don't really notice them other than how they feel against my jeans
my shirt, my skull,
my body-line crooked--
that fake stillness makes me think
that I am a part of the earth and not intellectually manufactured to reject it
because logic has its own space, and the earth is
just something we sit on, and built on, and die on,
not something that whispers
in our ears when we just
stop, stop, stop and lie open.