branches all over and I’m calling you forth:
you kindred one, you bent low in the hazel.
what am I allowed to want? under the barn
gleamed hunger, the eyeholes shiver there.
spirit that’s kindred, spirit that’s kind, bent like
a witch hazel. what if the body decides to keep
you? so hungered for gristle, black lumber, eyelet.
brought down with symptom, you break my hair
now. and what does the body keep? the
hayfields, oats, a reckoning like high fever
and my hair is alight with kerosene, riven.
I carry muscle and a little basket. my field
of visions, I reckon every illness. what are
we allowed, under the barn—thriving nerve,
a basket silent with kindling, lightwood, the
branches against us, spirit calling me over.