The thorns had hands. The fire stood still.
to piece together a hundred dreams.
Mother says the heart is a wheel
and it will turn as I turn. Quickly.
I told her I could not walk,
the walls circled my steps. I told her,
bleed blood, but sound.
it was voiceless
and low. But it was not.
My breath became the ghost of me,
or the ghost of an old man
Pages of thoughts, they were not mine,
their language. I told her,
cannot howl winsomely
fingering every loose twig,
good as air, was sleeping.
In my sleep, I wrote the field guide:
One was of salt,
one without hunger—a forest
of three-leaved trees.
My bed sat alone amongst the sassafras.
statue-like on a patch of moss.
I was watcher,
or maker. Yellow-bellied
Each thing I saw: a seed to myself.
Inside a girl stirred restless as rain.
Mother says when the basket’s full,
Asleep, I lived
in silence, but in light.
What if waking were
Stellar’s dream. And the body,
a darkness there is no memory of.