our pink and chocolate field
mushroom of a boyfriend
saw the bear crossing
plainfield bluebells too
long underwater to un
scraggle my lobes still
practically floating
I have stopped experiencing
the contract of days
the cosmos this season
chest finely threaded
the wasp having
already I’ll keep fingering
the ferns still
in their paper wobble
my legs enough
to activate wilderness
why is this particular
headwater so much
more iridescent? whatever
we mounted was in dreams–
where is the swamp master
of this unincorporated
village? right where I left
them, sluice
in hand–
the wasp has always already
why I love the wasp, this poem
I think I might’ve also have stopped experiencing the contract of days, but that’s not why I love this poem.