the chest
drips the ghost
collected in an acorn cup
Dorothy Wordsworth, moss is a fine alphabet
i have squandered my fairy fucking goblets
let us walk in a wood and become trees
so that we needn’t speak of them and brothers endlessly
we are bark
eaten back and back and back
a – live in the beetle’s
hum and juices
the flesh and char
the day and under woods
the cells – each to each
a singing that metastasizes