by Ian Axel Anderson

Oh, the walled spirits
concrete specters in the glass of nights
I have dreams about faces
crawling up my back in the mirrors
I am the green
wasting away in pine and
a rotting smoke detector
biting the tongue at the root
being nothing less than
necessary and
so polite hands shake the rivets
of fingers you forgot
you forgot
you forgot
like the folding mists
waving in like the storms
in my frontal lobes
she is walking through the trees
born like the sprouts of spring, o
the roots are crackling in the floor
massaging decay from the peaked scars
the heart’s cavity is closing; the
single  moon’s turn
I am octopus tentacle afire
melting skin and clutches
white and ash
there is falling again
& I can’t escape it now.


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