You come in the night all dead leaves and limbo resting between my chest-plate and spine. You are the quiet messiah who turns blood into sap and frees humanity from reason by preaching the solemn sermons from the Lowly Book I know you precede the Rust of the limbs and of the trunk as certain as entropy
So, then, I should also know of your leaving, where I imagine cupped and ***** hands will part my teeth pluck and plant them between my ribs to sprout ivory tangles that capture the starlight, etched with the names and faces of those that I have loved rooting me to the earth in a place without time in a world without you