She is in the trees,
She is in the vespers,
She is in the roots,
She is in the wasted
Space between my fingers.

She is my disease,
Depression yet sequestered,
When she bares her teeth
I forget to forage.
From my dramas
And catastrophes
She can reverse engineer
Her favourite comedies,
Pressed in pretty borage.

I passed a caulking boat
Upon a tidal ridge,
High-lining and abandoned,
Borax-white, saline scented;
I felt my head upon a rack
Within her unplugged fridge;
And when exhausted
I came to, yet unexplained,
I did not know where I had gone
Or who did expurgate.

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