into the roots of this place.
I rise when the sap rises.
The blades of furniture
that crowd the shaded floor
were carved by aching hands.
The severed noose I wear
becomes a sacrament.
The ribs open like a bird's wings
from my half butchered instrument.
The ground divided by my feet
has lips like a curling mountain.
I unfurl as a flag of kingdoms gone
and fall down to become a fountain.
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