Moss, anticipating, grows to pad your steps.
The last cycle and harvest of storms,
being eaten by liminal teeth.
Dark colossi weep diluvian tears;
are mulching their plot for their children to eat.
Something putrefying at the core
is stinging my eyelids shut;
these wooden veins that once were flesh,
and I cannot recall when I understood;
through my arms are fresh green shoots;
the body enraptured as earth.
Here stands a burial plot.
Here shakes a field of wheat.
Walk amongst their yellowing stalks;
feel their rattling incantations –
rough strands, swelling with life –
feel, again, the wind
moving over the face of the earth,
blessing the bread that is soon to be broken.
Something is rotting in the belly –
a culture of thrilling beasts.
“Give him a Christian burial.”
“He had God between his teeth.”
Your steps come quieter
on the earth as it sleeps.