You are deep
cradled in the palm of thousands
and their collective voices
hand you over, and over
into and through spaces
You are at once
moss, bark, leaves, petals, stems,
mole fur, moth wings, hair, skin, twigs,
animal flesh and blood and bone
and the porous body of insects
(all of them dead)
mostly bacteria and microbes,
all of it slimy and moulded over, wet and breathing,
grinding down into the same black mulch that is
the corpse of all the forest.
45% mineral, 5% organic matter
and 50% voids.
In corridors and unoccupied rooms
there is always a draft (somewhere the window is open).
The coat is sewn with empty pockets.
Now we burrow
through the shedding of the earth
The feed is made of itself.
Crumble. Decay. Burst.
And there is the mealy earthworm,
pushing blind face forward
towards the vibration of the rain.