the trees stand outside the door.
a gate,
adrift from their brothers,
a port on the sea
of brown arms, green fingers,
breaking waves.
wind pushes silent giants
sweeping arms a mad swirl
the wash of limbs
turns me, plants my head
knots of memory
root out
break skull
twist into loam
crawling feelers
wander, search
my brain reaches deep
cracks foundations
and my feet spread leaves
soles warm in the sun -
until the wind dies
and the branches still.
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