with long felted throats but lacking tongues,
we talk in flared flamenco gesture,
the swirl of spun-skirts that flounce
to the syncopated claps of poplar leaves.
speech is for animals. we dance, mine meaning
and secret, flex ruffled flesh to test
coiled tendrils of air. we raise black wings
and flap, stamp damp leaves, shiver tempo
down to listening roots, the rapt hyphae,
delve into the seeping cracks between realms.
we twirl in slow motion, snap
with electricity, whip spores over acres
of thrumming forest, deliver our fierce piece
with pieces of ourselves.