I fall afield of the leavened ground, where it is flat, still.
A piece of our gospel tells of fallen things, of bread without yeast, souls without bodies, people without homes. Landfast! they call from the sky. In or out of the exosphere, can’t escape gravity.
The ground is silent as the sun dips highward, its asperities inflicting damage if your self-control sucks, which mine does. So what if I look at the sun?
I’m aiming for sheered sight, windswept eyes, a boost in my sense of smell.