I swear I am made
of supernatural stuff.
I might turn into a toad's egg,
a dancing hatchet,
or a shivering dress on bark
speaking to the deep tree.

Roaming rocks in liquid soil
torching alphabets throughout
a metallic grind.
Sun's crest reaching over me
like a hoop of oil.
Radiant spores on a raft of coal
blinking to electric replicas
receiving a thick river.

Jewels of a curving branch
sprouting human tongues.