as if rooted to the spot

as if fearful he’ll leave me

or cauterised ideas

vain tingling

as if wither

as if bark

the sun has turned us inside out

our blood ghosts this idealised domestic interior

he ached to take root in me

but i spun his seed to spider silk

the sun windows your no

he you i she whoever their sap throbs in morse

spelling the air’s thirst

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