Lineage Tracing

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.


Scientists say that the genes of 500 million-year-old sea creatures can be found in my cells

thing of the Woods

I see a story on my family's body, each gnarled branch a collective of punishment.


As a master I’m lax, no fertilizer, erratic water.