Toadstools, I am chasing unknown through
the nerve-branched forest, waists and
arches spotted with your candified cocoa eyecolors,
laced up their soft stringy legs with grit and gristle.
Spindle-snailed, they build freckles of rings, scattered,
loose-spaced, and curl around me, comfytea,
pickled taste fiddleheads and snakes, all forest.
I can eat these pomegranate seeds
and grapes of Tantalus, and even apples, or
dance sticky in these sapped green circles, whatever
the rituals of grace require. Birdbrown wings, know?
So they do? No, they don't. I don't keep that
treasure close; it must be buried, mossy deep,
someplace. I will admit they are alarming aunts,
all inquisitive creatures, chirping with rumbles. Know?
I would ask what you meant, you sap-darked dazing tangle,
but I don't like to recount the buds. I know
I am too much pale oak to wonder, anymore.
No, they do not know. No one does. Orchid or lily mute as mum.
But I am here, all facing up shuffle-leafed and full
of secret racing Yes.
[Tay]
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