Dread the fertile limbs
of the forested paths,
clustered not beyond doubt,
but melded back to the earth
by wrath.

You dismiss:
“it’s too bright,”
that is, my ghosted figure
and snuffed out embers,
and your own face blanched by
pseudo
light.

Axe me, but
dread
the two of us—
love, loving, loved—
dead.