My words are returning—they were sent away to some distant plane and then uncovered again If this place is merely scattered in my head then I’ll recall: “Nothing is rising” I swear to G-d: “Nothing is sinking” If nothing is rising, I can speak in echoes aimed firmly at foot but meant for the ground Yet I just shrug and submit that: “Nothing is rising” I’ve watched you wilt into countless earthy shades of grey Washed away in a flood that never cedes to a voice that can’t delineate our divergent geographies And your words won’t stop sinking Your roots can’t demand a thing when caught in topsoil’s embrace And if you find yourself buoyed by the sun’s morning gaze—then I remind you: “Nothing is rising” Conflicted by breathing—I can only blame me Conflicted by breathing—maybe one day I can forget the feeling I can’t forego the feeling you’re adrift with leafy remnants I never could grasp The feeling remains: nothing is rising, nothing is rising Savage the trees and see what remains Flora rejects what your downpour sustains “Nothing is rising”—a tattered refrain Nothing is rising, nothing is rising