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Stephen Watt – A Feeling of Being Watched
In a secluded dell, swollen conifers bailey the body;
a virgin shrine
garlanded by hanging baskets of fruit.
Punctures in his skin, ruptures, aids the roots
to grow, slowly, like hearsay, scrutiny,
squeeze like the acidic currants of a mother’s eyes
pinched by press bulbs and questions.
He is with the critters now.
In thunderstorms of crackling marrow,
popcorn flesh and fluids flood the soil
and seeds donate organs
greedy starlings may plunder
but on the fluorescent signatures of the leaves
where public do not wander,
he has been absorbed into maple, timber.
A jaw of squirrels.
A chest of robins.