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.