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We who are of wood
and walls, adjusting, playing
playing with germs
when Third World Immune System
alights twice as bright in breaths
cooking forests.
Be the air stirred strong
keeping walls at bay
in inner world woodlands
that leaf off veins
of desiccating leaves.
The outside
circle of trees lean away
from green that is and smells that are
cabin politely
waiting in their lush
of adjusting wood and would.
As if all things we aren’t
aren’t changing, all gods that die
aren’t dying like dogs, we diamond the green
we cannot squeeze any tighter,
only divide further.