We have our palms embedded in the trunks
of trees, embroidered in its leaves were desires
left seasoned by the worms. That the fruits were
products of a hundred laborers, scattered throughout
the jungle of civilization, undisturbed, and the seeds
outgrown the narratives of the past, filling the gaps
of history that sleeps on a specific page of a book.
Our interconnectedness denies lies
that lie beneath the veins of a wildflower, so beautiful,
delicate, yet untrusting. The world can revolve around
as it is, even without a machine. Yet, all our greasy arms
will remain afloat on top of the blood of the forest,
in front of frogs and fish. Wait until the river touches our souls.
By then we would know how naked we are all this time.
