ay you
stood there nude
you’re mud
& you won’t forget
only really
you’re a foetus
of labouring dark,
on lunar milk
binging
by this low wall
inch by inch
into full bole life
crossed over
by flowers’ dreams
& summer sleeps’
perfumes, just
to feel, believe that
from your feet
push out, race &
worm roots,
& snakelike
seek your deep
& wet
source to slake, &
& already
bind you to it, you,
O tree alive unknown
untaxonomized
who forms the fruit
you will yourself forage
the bone of your crown
within your hair
that the wind plays with
hides a nest
of immaterial birds
and when you come to bed
and I acknowledge you
my errant brother
your touch, your breath
will awaken the flutter
of mysterious wings
right up to the edge of death
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