Knee-grazed. Nothing heart-shaped, no blue food. Almonds sugared. Cracked as gold eggs. Lavender. Wet Moss. Feverfew. Walled woodland. Wild poppies. Rocky splashing, a stream; scored in the dirt; your name scorched on the leaves or burnt on the underneaths of my; soft tender, simple feet. Your trace on the nut shell rattle of air. On red velvet, on fresh bare cheeks, on restless hands, on your strong back which feels weak. Light as birds, long as those musty shadows. runs of tongues to seal. of those eyes. to touch envelopes On hibernating here. In pine cones, acorns, in a pomegranate. My wolf has a giant's hunger, he whines for a woodsman on my dining room table. I press my fingers in his fur, we sleep.

There is a path through the forest and it parts for you My cupids hide money in their socks and under their hats, laughing about it Under a wet blanket sky Cards of rain are all pontooning I can feel the grease of earth wriggle between my toes Shot in two by lightning the blades of water make the branches heavy But you stop and lift your wet shirt halfway to your eyes and make a sack of it to claw Some sweet some sour damsons down Or creep unsure footwells of freshly torn smoking wood Or shake a heavy branch and shower me with dirty water and bopping fruit I shout that I am scared of the slick mud because it’s like quicksand but You shout back you can’t hear me and You’ve got a thousand damsons huddled in your wet shirt And your bare stomach is spattered with mud I’ve got three damsons but they’re good and biting into one, it’s sweet so I give it to you but your hands are busy so I smush it against your mouth and you nod and tell me with rain dripping off your eyebrows, silently that it’s sweet, so that’s good.

We were taught that meaning comes already carved, polished smooth enough to hold without a sound. But some old voices live beneath the grain of stone, asking only that the hand remain a while: in place until the silence finds its matching shape, and what was hidden answers echoes of birds. Old ropes hang bells budding with fruit to: trace ancient borrowed meaning through human skin. A thrum and hum of cycles, movements: asking only that the hand remain a while: in place until the silence finds its matching shape, and what was hidden answers echoes of birds. A forest of arches, resonant chambers, sacred geometry: High and gilded hollows that stretch air upward: speak. Circles within circles of radiating layers, asking only that the hand remain a while: in place until the silence finds its matching shape, and what was hidden answers echoes of birds.