The places, oh the places

Would you rather go to sleep in the cool prairie, in the supple earth under the grass, where the ants scale the mountain--where the ants choose your hobbling goosebumps over the trenches? Or would you choose the house attic, where the dryness of the air sucks away your tears before they form and you have only to sit, clasping your knees against your chest, resting your head, shutting your eyes, falling far? There is nothing in the wind, so stop crying. Nothing in your eye. There's nothing in you. Those tears come from nothing.

You sniffle? You're done, I hope.