Turns, Like in a Screw

Eons ago, the mimosa grew on the thorax to squat
As we roared into this clearing,
Which not hard to do, was the throat, a uterus
Pushing words out with all her strength, to extricate
Everything but the one part, what lodges there
Has rights to - the human turn toward earth.

The moment our feet sunk in, like hungry animals,
We knew the bluff on our backs, carried up that bevel,
The grudge the universe will not forget, wanted back
The missing something that was jagged & unswallowed.

The only thing certain: something in the skull,
A tap on the shoulder, accusing as a lone hawk
In the neglected sky, perfidious like a floating lair.

It counts that we remember when we did not
Mean to use words or the jaw for that, that
Chewed up itself & the world with it, smooth
Enough to swallow whole.

There contains a forest in us no one can find
Or conjure but is a polished lie, a soft breeze
Which offers the faint smell of a truth
Leaving you pleasured without the trouble nor able to
Take credit for it, so that we must invent as we do
Every standing blade of grass.

We are on a rock
Listening to the sun speak into it, to grow.

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