I’ve lived in the thrush
and hot candle wax
a palm of welting skin pressed against a foggy window
damp with the grit and sweat of dawn
I stepped into the copse
bundled in its swarthy tightness
there is rot here
and flesh
the pulsing of a heart
giving life to each sapling and elder branch
if one wants to find the heart of the forest
look no further than up
the moon
a woman in her own right
no celestial body can deny this truth
there is a certain relativity to one’s heart
and to the extent of which blood and flesh and bone define us
I wanted to believe in something not purely physical
that could tell me what I was or could be
but my blood and flesh and bone
bind me
to the dirt and to the heart of the forest
which I hope
I believe
is not purely physical
in its own right
Sep 20, 2015
Sep 20, 2015 at 12:11 AM UTC
I’ve lived in the thrush
and hot candle wax
a palm of welting skin pressed against a foggy window
damp with the grit and sweat of dawn
I stepped into the copse
bundled in its swarthy tightness
there is rot here
and flesh
the pulsing of a heart
giving life to each sapling and elder branch
if one wants to find the heart of the forest
look no further than up
the moon
a woman in her own right
no celestial body can deny this truth
there is a certain relativity to one’s heart
and to the extent of which blood and flesh and bone define us
I wanted to believe in something not purely physical
that could tell me what I was or could be
but my blood and flesh and bone
bind me
to the dirt and to the heart of the forest
which I hope
I believe
is not purely physical
in its own right
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