paleosols

I want to pound your words to poultice, catch

their shapeless hum as I set them to steep.

I want to trace your temptations across ginger

tea leaves. Where is your rabid, the sultry curl of

your spite? I miss it, I miss you

in lightning bug night. In the canopy call give me

your knuckles knocked words. The ones silent in

scurry, from the shrill bleating Blur, from the keep

of the Shroud, from the tap tooth creature,

from the soilstir swell. I miss all the notches,

the vetch of your voice, my Fossorial, my lost,

my— I wish I’d bottled the whole of your

words, since you’ve never been found.