More.

I want to burn the mountains
into my skin,
etch the golden trees unto my eyelids
because seeing, seeing is never enough
when there are blankets to weave
from mists and myth and desire,
to wrap heavy tapestries of glades
around shoulders sloping
in wistful days
down into forests, down to cairns;

and it’s mind games and half-worlds,
dreamt up in dawn-cold car rides
decades ago,
still playing at getting lost
in woods that have grown small
in a world disquietened;
and memories tattooed to
the back of eyes
in moments stolen from without time
forever tint the view
of seeing the world with eyes closed:
behind grid lines, branch and bramble,
forever asking for more