Where I Won’t Be Found

I bury my head in a patchwork frame

Of metal and silk earth,

Knitted tightly, sewn with hyphae.

Whatever gore remains

Will diffuse into a shallow ocean

Drain away into a heatless abyss,

Quartered and atomised;

Perfect lint for trees.

I dig my nails into the core;

There is no sensation to animate within.

Its feathery breath streaks wet across the skin;

The mound fills the maw shut,

The roots pierce the eyes with ease,

The mould rots the lungs anew.

I am eaten in halves

And woven in two.

I bury my head

And keep going.