You clutched me like some slothlike
creature, full of wrapping,
grappling arms, a snarl
of elbows all bent
on ascending me.

But sweetness, these
are mushrooms growing out of me.

I’ve undertaken the horizontal rotten
prayer.

I’m the hollow sort of log,
the kind that sinks a boot
like snow. I’m all spongey dust
and hungry bugs. A fungus, love,
is taking care of me. Sap

is for the neighbors;
I am for the earth.

You cannot have me, honey.
I am no home for loving in.
I am no tree for hugging.