all the trees become monkeys at nightfall
their silhouettes falling/failing in black buffaloes of exuberant life-mud
—in wine and strokes we pick the black parasites
from our hides, all of us native as treetops, roots, bark, nothing
beyond what we can see—deserter... we call you that. we dare and dare not.
the mudwine has taken us for harvest. you who deserted us, carry us then
in your strokes, carry us forth and do not. submerged as the naked one lying beneath, your story, your stroked mud, deserter. you who know nothing
and all things in the foul mouth of the harvest-rainbow. you who carry us on
my love our love, all that you are become the treetops now of monkeyed night. deserter. foul mud. breakers of wine. strokes of the carry-harvest,
unleavened, black carry.