I'm not a poet
Don't speak the language

Death follows (a lantern-lit, moss-draped carriage)
Offers me a ride (so kind)
But it's not my time (for—for;
give me,
get me)

I'm not a tortured soul
Just trying to be understood

Please? Won't someone save me?
(Where—
oh
where—
am... I?)

I'm just writing on this journey to the end

Helicopter seed
comes to rest on the green moss —
A princess in bed

(I wrote you most days from the rainforest floor)
                                                                              This is where the                       
moss was                                                           
  ­                                                                 ­         
                                       and they were too

I am out of touch and missing all at once                                 unable to get back to the surface
swimming next to a blue flame
glowing ectoplasm glitters
the tour guide is a woman’s voice       under the stars and everything concave is inside out     far away from what it once was,
                                                            ­                              uninverted
happy is the uncertain                     I looked for you in the chrysalis       and you
                                                             ­                  were still wearing
                                                         ­                                 your socks
                                                           ­      
when you disappeared
I found them in my drawer three days later      tucked themselves in still covered in glitter from the caves
I had so many questions when I reached out my hands
stuck to the walls and swallowed my palm
                                                            ­  silicone and retreating light
it wanted me to stay in a time I could only help but leave
the artists gold leafed my throat like it was delicate and
ready to go on stage                                           wearing shoe covers walking and talking       gently avoiding          swimming their arms the foxgloves developed negatives backwards                                in gelatine                                                         ­                 over water
pasted down                         every darkness bright green lime green stinging                                                         ­  immediately
                                                                ­                             nauseous turning to stone                                      under the gaze of the walls.

If only I could stay
In labyrinths green
Ever wandering
In hallways of sunlight
Nothing more than
A lingering thought
Left floating through
Wooden minds and
Mossy corridors

KNL

The old habits set in
like the moss on stones,
clinging to my brain.
                                    Waiting to inhale my
                                     remaining soul that I
                                     grew last summer.

there are
times when
the world insists on
making meaning don’t
turn this
into an abstraction
my hand
down
here between your
legs covered
with moss (I can almost
feel your milky roots)
watch my fingers
as I touch you there is
electricity
can you
see it
watch me get on my
knees this is
the sky flowing out
of your hips can you
see it this is
what gives (milk)
to all of my
hungers don’t
stop
let me
make you flesh
into blossom let me
take you down
into me
like the rain