Out of the Woods

On the way to water, I suppose, low
moan, warmness too deep for me
to reach. A new noise
from a vent inside the paper palace. Before,
I soar off brick
wall, begging for a trade;
the door swings open and unhinges
me to the nail. I heard ssssSMH in the back of me;
you now not prepared . As it seems, ticks,
like law enforcement officials, have a flavor for black blood.
The mosquitos made a meal of me
for weeks—their on foot Slurpee.
One stuck his straw in my 1/3 eye. I spell
him struck blind. My pals collect lists
of things they never knew, read me
for dust. I say in every language, I don’t have
the solutions. They don’t accept as true with me.
I stop buying tickets to the shit
display, however irrespective of the distance,
the smell is pervasive. In the woods,
I found out toddler wolves get high
from the heady scent of hearts bursting
on their Instagram feeds. Serotonin
is a helluva drug. In the clearing, I stress
to hear the echoes of guys whose bodies
drag the wooded area ground. Unfortunately, all
the witnesses withered seventy winters in the past.
Blood is a effective fertilizer.