as if they once had teeth, your hands

As if they once had teeth, your hands
nibble on apples half mud, half worms
–you eat only what falls to the ground

rotted, serene, made dark
by the welcoming slope into evening
–you pick the way every stone

points where to rest, has this urge
to be useful, calms your arms
still attached to the same mouth

and milky breath, holding on
–you share these twins with the sun
stretching out on your forehead

shining in its darkness from the start
and in you arms the word
for offering, for stillness, pieces.