From bellow to below

We treat the eyes as if it were another’s and the earth like some latent moon beneath the grass, when beneath the feet are not a thousand million waves resonating from times elapsed, but also merely the dirt itself whose brown resonance is that of your immediate concern or feigned insouciance, betrayed by the very sense your toe nails initiate in their crusty tonality. Bending each end of your body to abide in your breath the space allotted by the restrained violence wringable from others who likewise retain their communicable gregariousness, appearances that themselves suggest an essential earnestness, however alien and inconceived, for one to meet another one, without needing any sightful mention of what we share as the earth. In our repose a shade turns in the shadows that the cloud the sun imitates when we reflect our inner suns in our outer eyes, and we speak not with words but with our very placement here on earth, structured like so many frills along the quilt of our collaborative humanity, each thread a word issued at the flick of an eye to make contact between such disparate visions that one hand cannot afford another just yet, unconscious beams that is like weather cast as pattern on the final blanket that we each form serendipitously univocally. We engage our own survival atop this surface like earthly crusts making for hammocks we mistake with each weave for trees, and so in our inadvertent stances put unfair pressure along one edge and cause the whole fabric to bolt towards the place pressured by feet that have lost the hands that were threading the very craft the then unanimous whole, and in one faulting person an entire engine begins to sink to the bottom that we are forced to understand if only just to crawl on all our fours back to some airy surface.