humus

 

Mink in red, red, dawn
Sleeping, dead, fawn
In mind, in vitro, in time, in motion,
Fern curls hillside shadowbound
Beehive serenade en-rounde
I love the mist; its low temperature
I enter from here
Atop the woods
A path of clay recording my foot
Sunk in, the evergreen,
Standstill among a barren forest of trees
The white petals, small flowers, they kiss the air
I dawdle and hear a gunshot
I know a spirit has just been released
I rest on the moss
I leave a coin behind as a gift
But it reappears in my pocket afterwards;
They don’t want it, keep the change