This must be the time of year when the dragonflies hatch. Everything is green except this doormat of orange moss, stiffly flopped over a rock like it can't be bothered.

Tiny emerald Beatles, who move faster than neuronal charge, a second to you must be like my day. Remember how I hoped I would find your dead bodies, and finally make my necklace.

 Deep in the dark, cool recesses of the British Museum, made with the sacred wings of scarab beetles, I had seen in an object how wildness can be worn.

Then I knew there was myth in me. I started to hold it. I drew words and pictures up in a rusty bucket. Recovery.

 

Are you the leaves that curl closed when you're touched?

What if I surround you with my open mouth and breathe on you?

Is there a touch that opens you? Am I too blunt to discover it?

Too much of a brute, too much of a dreamer?

 

Grasses, grasses, your green translucence must be a voice, because it stirs in my heart what only the truth can, released from a throat in relief.

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-#1