tell the incessant worms: stop.
tell them to cease draining their oceans from these eyes,
these eyes of dying forests in the dawn.
take their hope of seeing me on my knees.
the green is just behind your eyes.

my eyes scan the curvature of the earth behind me,
my throat rumbles,
my lips form words in just whispers:
won't you tell me where you're hiding,
Past?