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