The womb
Rattles its pod, the moon
Discharges itself from the tree with nowhere to go.
My landscape is a hand with no lines,
The roads bunched to a knot,
The knot myself,
Myself the rose you achieve—
This body,
This ivory
Godly as a child’s shriek.
Spiderlike, I spin mirrors,
Loyal to my image,
Uttering nothing but blood—
Taste it, dark red!
And my forest
My funeral,
And this hill and this
Gleaming with the mouths of corpses.