Unfettered

My breath the grass blades do not bend for, My sitting, face to the earth, the dirt does not shift for, I run fingers through running water , and it runs through, unfettered. I am lonely in that my body does not occupy any space, In the filmy quality of the scenes of my life across my face, I press air past my vocal cords, and it presses past, unfettered. Does God know the language of the dove? Are we, in all of our arrogance, come push come shove, Are we all the same with knives, behind our teeth to slide through, unfettered? It seems so to me when you are bleeding, face down, into grass that does not stir with your breath, as you now have none.