The Road Going To Woods

Sometimes you hear the
strange voices― coming from
short distances, in half murder
of myths, when you
were strung in the shade
of glittering planets.

Blue knives and red wounds,
unearth your past. You miss your ancestors,
as if living on tree tops between
prayers and hymns.

The skin goes taut. You feed
the bones to stand erect,
to walk like a feral primate.
The script was changing, nor
the parchment.