All flesh is grass

All flesh is grass. Krishna walks upon the lawn without one backward look, this is her garden after all. Her mighty steps mould, sometimes mangle the stalky fingers, carve on a track across the green, darkening it with sacrifice, then tinging it, eroding it into gold. No single glance back. Who ever does look at the steps one takes, the steps one steals? We cut our paths through the lives of others, chances we pluck before their vines can tangle us, slow us down, and before they can caress us, touch us.

We are so heavy, yet all flesh is grass. Our meaty leaves are built from breath, upon our masts live sails of web, round chutes follow the wind, bade us the vertical though we only ever walk the horizontal. So many windows in the dew, encased in hoary silk, interminable eyes pointing to heaven, reflecting it in Indra's net, echoes itself in each one drop.

But now her palm parts the web, she loves not spiders, their world entire her hand, but not for long, her fist closes their death over their black carapaces. Pregnant, they crack into caviar, cast their mesh once more, each egg reflecting one another and all without. Indra cackles.

Does the mailman ever mark his strides? Sometimes his letter carries a dearer fare, stumps chiseled from paper cuts, sharp words, and long, blunt embraces.