parts of the tree disappear
behind the dew
my stomach lurches for the viable
offerings of her (earth's) dark matter--
secrets buried -- inside bodies wombs evidence and insight
the artifacts of discarded (clothing) skin on the bed
where articles drift - recordings of old doings
going-ons and desperate beginnings - ends
draped over the chair
an old blanket telling stories with scent and collected hair
a cover of night sweats mares--
they say even bad dreams are products of women--
though maybe it is the strength of fear in centuries that bring us discomfort
the quietest moment of dark remembering
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