shroud the body, hide it in the dark.
let the hair grow out, my nails grown long as knives,
my hands making masks over my eyes,
vines creep up, they roll the stones over in a shower of gravel,
to weave a cave, bark over my calves, my knees, my back, my neck,
until i wear a shroud of grave.
but under the press of soil,
my hands hold a staff of jerusalem thorn.
there is a star at my brow.
i am in the warren of lost things.
beneath the bark and leaves, i am a sleeping thing.
i can regain my light.
tonight i travel among the roots of the trees.
but i return, no more summoned than the birds.
still, do i long for bethany,
and can i reclaim it?