Welling. Seeping. Dashes to cover of cattails, reed-fringe, open woods, grass-grown-over logging roads, leaving rags and strings of DNA to sink into silt, dissolve into decay. . . .
I am your mother as the horse / is mother to the louse, endlessly / intricate interlocking systems / which the blissfully sucking louse / can’t imagine and never must. . . .