State of Mine

mine is with the planter of words
in the stanky dark of a jungle soil where
mangroves will grow from my sentences

their annunciation will not be articulate
and their character obeys a
permanent disorder

but the constitution of these branches
their desire
will be obvious

they'll plunge their hands
into the soil, desperate to uncover roots
a substance which births them

only arms,
many arms will tangle themselves
reaching for origing, follow themselves into the dirt
slowly, though, slowly, a slow weave requesting

madness that obeys etiquette

mine will be parting callused finger tips
from the face of a lover
which wishes a hundred ways
touch me and know me

i suppose then, in darkness

not in nothingness but shadow.
hidden, unnavigable, instructions behind a dialect
and treacherous

chasing reflections of the moon
in its light on the water
slick stones a tricky footing
and i'm impatient for day

it is lovely dangerous here
and you may not like all
your travels
but a lost mind, unfound
resorts to wile and mischief