camp(out)

that moon is a mangle of footsteps from astronauts

aquatic larvae’d flies fondle exposed ankles

a moose forges puddles of soil into the ground with weight of run

everything tastes better out here–even sadness

root toenails into tree bark and use those scratches as poetic call-outs

swim bones forward and backward 

trance the sun with your skin

a burn of hallucinogenic musical

sleep against the stir of stars and sweat of silence

here is where a film exists from the time you found your way back