She brings it to the woods where it does not belong
it does not smell like limestone
does not hear the ripple of flowing water
does not walk along the creek like cedar boughs,
it will never have the sex appeal of soaring hawk

She keeps it in her head and will not bring it out
it exists like quantum mechanics
and has a Roman numeral hiding in every black hole
it remains mute behind the face of her Latin,
stays motionless on the path of meaning like India ink

She wants to tie it up with the lace of her boot
but it’s birth canal is in the invisible snap of synapse
and grounded like lightning through the roots of trees,
it lives off the limes of delicious dilemma
and comes close to fiddling like old man Nero

She grows tired of it and leaves it where it does not belong,
it will become honeysuckle and root like wild boar
spread like moldy fungi through fiddlehead fern
turn the romance of the world against its own moon.
This is why there are jumbo jets and ermine clouds