“through our dead grip.”

People go into the People a lot like forests

Family roots hold like trees and branch off like trees

Above the ground, some touch and entangle, a roof

Halving the light to the entanglement below:


Which, a life-death mess of broken Falls, uncut Springs

Floating off the soil in a river of moisture

A thick seaweed grave of recycled everything,

Doubles the people between memory and movement.


People as the People take to the ground like forests

On roots first spreading then threading and hugging unison

Affixing there a half-lit dome of a half-left space,

Enters the person who went looking for themselves.


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