The Black (pt. 3)

In the farthest field there is a deep pit

A wound, proclaimed in the dusty outreaches

Of sweeping grass element

Which now and again bubbles and

Blossoms

With screams and shrieks of new

Birth.

Green is always rising on the sphere

As dust and death make their way to the ground

My fluid insides compete with this environment

Spores

Filth

Beauty.

I have a tree;

I am a tree

We are on a hill now

Bowing and rising

And bowing and rising

And billowing

They let the trees bump and sway

Stuck, yet expressive

To the extent of their radius there

They let the fruit deny their mothers

And thus disintegrate

Back into the soil.