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.