I am not
coming into the thickness
of trees; I’m not coming for
your body.
Slaughtered scenery
shut out
by blackout curtains.
Hazard and home
were your specialty, not mine.
Mine the ghost:
six teardrops
sprout from my center.
I covet a seed-sepulcher,
miniature infinity
where my wisp-thin
rootlets would wrap,
kindly, into your dark
topiary demesne.
But the inevitable censor
intervenes,
stars out
my garbled paean.
I’m done. Hang
my curdled zero-dream
in the garden to twist
and die. Unzip
the back
of my parenthesis dress.
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