When I wrap around yours bodies, I wrap around yours limestone boulders, yours mossy
riverbanks, and yours trees
sheered limbs that leave daggers

The rivers evaporate, fill the sky with water, then fall again to soak the soil. Trees grow, pines
cedars, sturdy. A system designed to give what is needed; a system that burns when poisoned.

When I survey yours naked skins, I catalog the colors of yours shedding maples, every
boisterous feathered-soloist, every
howl erupted towards the blood-soaked moon

There’s a seismic difference between the footprint of a squirrel and the tread of
size tens—
200,000 pounds.

When I inhale yours perfumes, I inhale twice. Yours air, invading at night, retreating with the
sun; I sip yours
cindered blessings

If burning trees is a crime, there are thousands of wanted men on the loose; if he’s wearing a
hardhat, he’s a

When I harvest yours gardens, I praise my good fortune. Reaping what I sow, and giving back
again; digging trenches will make
corn grow in rows

The orange (sky) faded in ’41; it’s been black
since ’42.

Blaize Dicus interrogates the origin of individual identities, societal impressions, and personal trials. His 150 Fifth Graders takes up most of his time.