. . . . .

Here are mothers who were actually basements (slowly rotting cabins). A premature motherchild coupling amongst the quartz, recorded in detail; identifying and suckling improves nothing: the site remains hospitable and concrete. Teal or navy skies for you to bench-press in your awaited transformation, a ceremony where you are matched to similarly-shaped mosses. Awaiting your emergence as a muffled lurking — as you simmer in your actions, this muted becoming.