Your Fireflies Are Always In No Palms

nobody lives in this tree. knot anymore.
there’s a moss that clots the bark with green riots
and mushrooms thumbing their noses at sunshine
in the dank balance… where the moose is unseen
until it wills it. and winter
has a sun
that hopes
you know
how
to build
fire.

like a voice in the note of  you
where a moat of you
is adrift
where you mostly
true.

i follow
where you linger
in the woods
and espy your
unbridled
wine.

the way you slope
into a wednesday
with a parasol
that prays for
rain.

and your fireflies
are always
in no

palms