touch of the grass

In the morning, even before the dog is awake I have put on all my dreaming clothes and walked outside across the lawn with my shoes in my hand. But this will not be enough: the touch of the grass will taste like green teeth, and the hammock, stretched between the unpruned apple trees, can barely hold the day's weight. I must keep saying to myself, lean back, back far enough until you see the apples fading from red to pale blue and feel the ground underneath inhaling, pulling through the squares of rope one by one like pieces of sleep.