Lay down, take a deep breath. With windows open, you have crickets in your ears and cars in your pocket. The deep dark thickness of moisture saunters over your skin and rolls through the fibers of your clothes. Heaviness once again.
Melt into the fabric held to your back. Meld into the blankets and mattress and rug beneath. Become a mass, a barely pulsing sculpture. Your body transforming into clay. Let it bake in the sun and then shatter and break. Allow ants to carry you off through the boards. Become mounds of sand between plaster and lathe. Outside you were eaten by worms to be redigested and spit out the end.
In smallness, become absorbent. Allow water in. The landscape has changed but the premise remains the same. You are carried to a stream unto which you are separated again.
Parts of you are stuck to moss and rocks hide you under their shade. Other pieces fall down so simply and become grain called silt onto which water will strain.
Break and break and break and break. Millions of pieces of you fall into a lake. A fish sucks you in and out to breathe. A frog paddles you away to grab its meal.
When the wheat meets the water you will pause on the threads. Who knew you could travel so many places in bed?