The quiet of the woods feathers my brain,
and my tongue magentas with beets.

Still I’m restless and cannot sleep.
I can’t explain the shadow’s abstractions—
how the coat rack becomes my dead father,
how dust motes swirl like fledglings in a riot of air.

I came here to be content, but it’s not working.
I must content myself with myself—
mind stuffed with clutter,
spilled contents of a tea cup,
amoeba birthmark on my collarbone,
pearls small moons against my chest.

When I finally sleep, I dream of horns that push
up through my belly and my nightgown.

I wake and scan myself for wounds.
I find only the usual ones.