Ever lost in the woods
ever washed of self
assurance, path, northmoss
the hour grows -
but still there,
under the unpatterned
shadow spindles
the drunken doily of
undergrowth and overture -
No one's there, recalling
but you seem to know
what is needed
your feet, the bending bones
the arch of them
under over (over) under -
It's not an original response
you're possessed,
you're weaving
under over (over) under.
And the lichen smells like food
the rocks like drink
you're lost, and ever lost
clean washed of yourself.
Oct 6, 2010
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