I put myself in a reality equaled only to repudiation. The world in its deepest corner effused my bone.
free, I am not the skin
of your lip, tree,
and I am not looking now
not dressed in the thunder of the storm—where the creel slips away from the fool.
Perhaps I only see the drunkening of a moment rather than its reason.
He should have carried it with two hands.
Baby’s breath into the elm tree, a strange lady in rose heels, she is the crypt for there are no dreams;
psithurism, algedonic to the death strokes when she flutters, how she rises to meet me. I tire to the maniac violets, their ribs exposed in each idiot feather
I dream between the blood from the womb; nature’s breast and bone; clavicle, ankle bones, alone she is unmisted to the shore, into Autumned dark. I dissociate.
I tire; tree fingers
tie their umbilical cords
onto the late birds