Some odd solace, this hole in the earth
holds. Hours here I crouch, cleave, curve limbs
among root, worm, mycelium.
Graze my eyelashes in the loam
at the lip.

A hiding place, now. A sanctum. This cusp
that I’ve raced and caught seams to cross
through, that I’ve brushed past, bruised smooth
by my passage – hands, leverage, hems – 
I now haunt.

Eyes level with the lip, vision split
between light and loam, I imagine myself
limbless. Imagine myself severed
of might. Mint, crocus, corn sprouting
from my scalp.