In the ground, tree roots smell of sex,
of salt, of neither male nor female, but
that of becoming, of unbecoming, one
and every other their roots entangle,
suck, sing, slide,
into one another, a mapping of cross–
roads, a tangling and disentangling of
nerve endings, beginnings, locks of
rooted hair locked under wet,
smooth soil.
In the ground, we, as one length of
flesh, of egg, of stomach, wriggle and
writhe amongst the tree’s finger tips.
Without eyes, we see only with our
mouths, wide open. Drinking the
perfumes of fellow Fungi and Littered
Leaf, we take no pause at the meaning
of above,
or below.
To those who wallow atop Land, and
roast under Sun’s misunderstood gaze, we
in the dirt do not envy your feet on which you
move, or your eyes with which you blindly deliver
the “truth” your species
says to have seen.
We, under the trees, amongst the roots,
in the dark of dreams and growth and brine, have
not the power to lie through our blind,
mute mouths.