The dense feminine weeping threatens to disappear
into black forest stones carpeted with lichen.
I step closer, in search of the source of pain.
Instead, I am confronted by
a voracious wall of writhing foliage:
a seedling tower of protection.
Constructed with butterfly legs,
grafted against her mossy thoughts
in confused spasms,
it seemed to invoke itself
as my feet dumbly rustled leaves.
I froze like a spider’s victim
as I watched her fertile buzzsaw tears
tear open slits of green pillow,
exposing the gangly thickets of discontent
that must have tied her sleeping subconscious
into taunting ovals.
Ah, those soul-staggering eyes.
Dense wildwood-night concussions
cascaded from her diamond-tipped gaze to mine,
sharpening the dullest corners of my head
until suddenly I felt the eruption of newly curious
fingertips, eyes, and knees.
She watched in mischievous fascination
as I spelled out in a hundred blades of picked grass
the youthful and mute vocabulary
of adulthood lost and childhood regained.
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