A growing forgetfulness.

A pocket for the land

to slip leftovers in.

A mute button made of vines.

A net made to conceal battalions.

A weed made of words.

A secret written in a green pen

on a green page

in a book of green stories.

Furnished with fern

tendrils, tender.

The self when it

unspools, rewinds

takes over,

is not kind.