Protons have pixied lichen-green light
pointing spirited aphids thru my skin
like cheesecloth torn by a holy countenance


There's something embarrassing 
about the way I marvel at their intricacies
peregrine stick & poke beadlings


at the flakes of mosswood 
symbiotic in their bated BMI carousel
up my arms, 
up, up my legs


Poised on the knuckle of the trail,
intoning with goat-lipped fauna 
the language that spills out of a BIG adventure
beyond the splintered evening spears


Hoisted above the gold-capped leaves
a pupil of the appearing moon


& the howl from neither nor


I gasp when we dip,
flocks of peridot are sucked 
into my ribs, 
spitting their glass wings


We are shaken by the fall,
its concentric strobing 

the scent of its winds 
the scent of its cinnamon