Tractor work.

The roots raise the road, unsettling, making stumbles, taunting civility, reshaping our small plans. These same roots dig deep, blindly hunting water through the black moss, worming new tunnels under tractor treads, under mining, soil breathing. A firmament above, honest souls beside and below, a land of blunt gravity and truth. Leaving all this, this familiar terrain, these contours of hope and disappointment all neuropatterned and predicted, I'll follow to where the roots don't win, to where history is a spreadsheet, and fingerwork is the new heroic. But I'll follow the tread, stumbling down hills to towns with plans. I'll bring the game, up elevator boxes, out swinging and grinning, armoured and all faked up. Here's a blue idea, here's a new shade, here's a syllable collection crafted just for you. Tractor work done, I'll tread twin contrails through the debris, uprooted, soul trodden, muddied up to the arse. "Never again", he says mistakenly.