Tropism

Tight ground


grips you


hips below clay


legs knotted


into one root,


its toothed eye


bites deep


into the dark


of the buried nest


where thoughts ground.


Hunger is your


only compass.


You must have


locked


onto granite.


The stem of your back


is beautiful,


were it not for


the yellow leaves


of your mind,


flaking.

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