In my dreams I see a woman stretching, always stretching towards.
We do not talk about the arms. How they wilt this way in curved angles.
Forest full of ferns and green light, emerald depletes her.
Though she manages the mud in an absence of water.
When it is darkness in a soft womb I can open my eyes.
I see my own ignorance.
Long lines of imperfection threaten the threads of light
closing their wormy mouths over the seams of night.
I am afraid to look at myself.
I know what desolation lurks,
ranging, imperfect, well-bred
beast, calling longingly to
the incomplete latitudes of forest.
Encroaching the barrenness,
I find my body occasionally,
covered in wet leaves.