A buckled land, 
a space to run counter,
a want for the placid plane. 

From one fold,
a garment finds shape.
From one opening,
a body finds force.

I pass the shuttle around the woven spine,
I walk my body along the craggy ridge line.

This hill contains not one clear view,
this opulent drape is much the same. 

If even the air is folding as we speak, 
I want my words to land proudly
on its collapsing curves.

When I resist, may the lines be acute. 
When I yield, may they repose with grace.