The shuffle of my feet kicks up your holy scents,

loam and smoke and the deep breath of ancient forests.

I would kneel here and press my nose deep into the ground

if I didn’t think they would worry more for my sanity.

Here is the rich iron of blood,

metalic in my mouth.

Here is the soft cruch of bone beneath our feet

and even farther down the rancid smell of decay

that wrinkles our noses and softens our lips.

Here is my holy, my relics,

as much of the earth

as of the stars above our heads.


Wrap me in your soft decay

and allow me to live even as I die.