You spend the year immured

in poetry and pieces

of half finished dreams,

obsessing over everything

you see.

I become immune.

I spend the year

immersed in beds of

black obsidian and

forgetting what it

ever meant to

me.  

             who’s the wolf 

           and who’s the deer?

Run a bath of rose quartz and

whisper those three words

you’ve been dying 

to hear:

this unfolds,

reversing.

“datura moon”