roman skin,
let out your blood
the way that
the river does.
all boiled
& full of the roots
of the world.
i breathe in
the moss of always
like your flesh.
all-mother awaits me
in the crook
of the tree,
crooked
& full of the leaves
that decay into her.
i polish away
her rosy
wood surface
to find beneath it,
the purplish sap
of her heathered insides.
she is me.
i have always
known this.
i take away from her
the loss of everything.
the renewal
of the hundred year oak,
the burial of seasons
amongst her.
i find my own memory
traveling on the milky wind
without wings
or feathers
to pass into.
we are becoming the beast,.
& we are everywhere,
eyes like
something never ignored
& snoring... |
Submission Name: the burial of seasons
