THE PARASITIC VINE
Before he left his cave, before the ice,
He wrapped a living rope around his waist
And placed its root inside his vest
And then stepped outside into the wasteland,
Trod the stones for many sunsets,
Slept in corridors of rocks,
Stroked the vine inside his sleep
And dreamt that other world he left behind.
This green life borrowed from his blood
Its life. He bore its weight, its constricting stem,
Allowed it to make itself at home
Inside his skin.
When he lay down orphaned one last time,
Its dream fed off him in a foreign place
Where the half-light casts in shadows
Penumbra of strange haunted silhouettes
Speaking strangled tongues of wilderness.