where am I in this quiet comet- blind and heretical-
you
are hunting for the stag in the deep wooded stretches of my body

have you forgotten the taste of my breath
I have forgotten yours-

have you tended to those burnt by the softness of black -
dreamt of stains of straw and skin

and bathed the wood of my body in a sweet sweat- engulfed.

I am not made of the blue or the nettles, not from
the language of stone circles and women dressed
in the rotation of the sun and moon