Wind-spewn, from the radiant

no, and grafted on

the brown-green scar of this

moment. You ask

what place this is, and I, along the seams

of your dismembering,

have told you: the forest

is the memory

of itself, this frail

splinter, streaming through

my navigable blood and driven

aground in heart-rubble. You ask

words of me, and I

will speak them—from the moment

I have learned

to give you nothing.