split off from its lost half open mouthed
fog walker the millipede’s carpet of legs
swamp forest hugging the bucket of blueberries
under umbrellas a buzzing phone
vireo holding forth
on a verse from vireo
This is what happens as soon as I stop walking, my daily habit: I become habitat.
Where did it come from, this premonition that someday I will be parted from my head?
a drop of rain for each newborn leaf
red appendages born-again maple
a face pressed against the train window
an oak tree’s newest mouth
six fish crows and the sun