I think of the deer wearing felt hides and their bone crowns
sprouting velvet coverings. Their soft light pulsing in constructed rivers.
I can nearly hear the blood beating in my ears
like bird wings. I am just as delicately composed.
Humbled by the fungus which metabolizes the dead
into fruit. To fruit a body out of dirt. Fruit of my body. Reverse rot.
O forest full of walking kingdoms. O future homes of abundant mold.
We are creatures stepping surely towards metamorphosis.
